



len: Tim, Nee ITTIELI 1111111180000 
4 ‘i | 177 : 
G WEIN Ca inns 







HMM 


fe er ‘ 


Pd Ut ee 
arShRatgt! , 
A a 

ry 
tie i a 
H 







In A 


a | 











le, | i . 
ie v % 


it 
| nl 


ut ii 


alle 


il 








wu 





























i! il 


| gh af " ~ EK i 
















on I 


| We 
un ri 








pil h A ve 
(on ie) u 
(a mm Vous 


N My it M4 ı Na Ka, I 


Al 

Ni WINZER | (Mh yu 

| a « iit My i = ii) fi i iit | 

wid 7 A ‘i = A, 

Me, fe 
/ > i | 


| nf 


nn lis N n. un EN XN 
pre zu 


: "li 2 | I 
Ny | 


‘ N N ar ” U < | y 
f je" sc > ‘il “et cy 





eee atte 
Pasian) LI ie 


TN 
| RN, vr, 
¥ ees 
u N An Ir 
‘ih nent h 1011 IRRE 
AS ANNS 7 pe 
“teen | 
x 
‘ ST 






) 


% 











y 


















| 






| |) Ale 
N 










varys 
















co 















‘ian || v 






pi 





a 
if my 


fe 


va 


a 
sl 


uf S | 


ae 






nn... 


ji! | 
| 
| 
\ 


al 
il 


es 
Jun 





THE UNIVERSITY © 
OF ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


SBAwe8. 


OL ERs 





Return this book on or before the - 
Latest Date stamped below. A 
charge is made on all overdue 
books. 
ee U. of I. Library 


5 


SEP 25 ma Ju 


" 


May 15 1939 


huU 15 194y | 
Mn 22 ipa) 


Be tii rei 








: 
= = t 3 ~ 
; 2 
- IR = x 
> 
a 
= 
u Br 
; 
< = 
N >» u 
~ 4 7 2 

« =o ™ 


agatha ag b= 


Be Dive 
aA > 








FABER 
OR 


Phir LOS Tv eARS 


By Jacob Wassermann 


THE WORLD'S ILLUSION, 
2 Volumes 


THE GOOSE MAN 
GOLD 
FABER, OR THE LOST YEARS 


FABER 
OR 
u LOST YLARS 


BY 
JACOB WASSERMANN 


AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY 
HARRY HANSEN 





‘ale 


| NEW YORK! 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT, 1925, By 
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY 


PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY 
THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY 
RAHWAY, N. J 


YO 


Kg 
YA 


“ 


As 
ge 


gr Selected for Hum 


ites 


hal 
Art 
‚Proservston Proje 


FABER 


OR 


THE LOST YEARS 


I 


FABER arrived on the evening train in his native city, 
where he had been active as an architect until the war 
broke out and he became a prisoner in its first month. 
Since then five and a half years had passed. 

With him travelled several comrades, like himself 
the last stragglers among those returning home; com- 
moners like himself, but unlike him so agitated during 
the final stages of their journey that they talked in 
disconnected sentences like men sick of a fever. As 
they had telegraphed home upon leaving the ship they 
were sure of being received by their relatives and 
friends. Although ordinarily reserved, they plunged 
into excessive sentimentality when they spoke of wife 
and child, mothers and sisters, and even of houses and 
rooms. Faber remained silent in a sort of unfriendly 
fashion. One of them asked him: “Will your wife 


Rn 5 


> 


616096 


FABER 





his*hand coolly to his fellow travellers of many months 
and left unobtrusively with his little wooden chest. 
He caught only a hurried passing glimpse of the noisy 
greeting that awaited them. 

With his cap pulled far down over his forehead he 
left the station as one who fears that he may be rec- 
ognized. At the Square he stood undecided, then 
hesitatingly continued on his way. He reached a 
street which contained numerous second-rate hotels. 
He entered one and demanded a room for the night. 
A dirty waiter led him into a miserable room that 
smelled of badly washed linen and air that had not 
been changed for days. He threw open the window 
and sank fatigued into a chair. The sultry sky of a 
July evening blazed over the near-by roof. Through 
the imperfectly closed door of the adjoining room he 
heard whispering voices and from time to time a 
woman’s laughter. 

He rose, paced up and down, then washed his face 
and hands, and thus noticed an unpleasant palpitation 
of his heart, ich was not new to him. This evil 
had become chronic in his body since his terrible flight 
from Siberia to Peking. Then he again seated him- 
self at the window with his head in his hands, and it 





FABER is 







seemed as if he was trying to determine 
entered this hotel and why he wished to s 
untidy room. Whenever the laughter of the 
next door rang out he wrinkled his forehead. 
gave his facé the expression of a suffering child, 

In the house opposite, a gloomy lodging for tenants, 
a few rooms were lighted up. He became aware of 
an old man with spectacles, who was reading a news- 
paper, and the curly head of a little girl, which ap- 
peared and disappeared at intervals. In another room 
a woman was engaged in folding reams of coloured 
paper. 

“Impossible to remain here,’ he said to himself. 
He pulled on his coat and stood for an instant thought- 
fully at the door. As the laughter burst forth once 
more he left the room as if filled with disgust and 
went down the stairs and out into the street. He 
looked up the facade of the opposite house: the lighted 
rooms were now high above him. He smiled with a 
sort of astonishment. Then he felt his breast with his 
hand; the palpitation of his heart had stopped. 

Only a few people met him. Even the taverns were 


empty. Here and there old men and women sat before 





8 FABER 


lamps. Only men who have become the victims of an 
unsatisfied fantasy gaze like this, until finally they be- 
hold reality. And everything that he saw was ugly, 
dirty and commonplace. 

He was driven forward without definite volition on 
his part; his step lacked the rhythm that a destination 
imparts. From streets filled with traffic he passed 
again into quieter ways, and thus reached a square 
with a church whose pure lines and harmonious pro- 
portions had been familiar to him since his childhood. 
Tranquillity came over his features as his eye grasped 
the Gothic figures and ornamentation and moved up 
the spire, which had the whiteness of charred bones. 
That the church was not his goal was soon evident, 
although its loveliness, forgotten by time, must have 
filled him with courage for his undertaking. 

After brief deliberation he turned toward a building 
standing about one hundred paces away; the gate was 
still open, the entrance hall still lighted; after the 
same deliberation’ he knocked at the porter’s window 
and asked, with affected carelessness in his voice, as 
one for whom the answer is of no consequence, 
whether Doctor Fleming still lived there and was at 
home. The man nodded to both questions and then 
followed him with a suspicious glance as he climbed 






Faber rang aßthe familiar door a 


FABER 9 
shuffled toward him, the bolt was carefully drawn back 
and in the crack of the door appeared the familiar face 
with the chubby cheeks; strangely aged, however, with 
lightened hair and sharpened chin. Faber stepped 
out of the shadow and removed his cap. 

Eyes unnaturally small and continually blinking be- 
hind thick lenses of eyeglasses measured the late 
caller. A sharper scrutiny, a flash of recognition 
and astonishment caused the tiny eyes to disappear 
completely behind the thick lenses and the spongy 
pouches of the cheeks. 

With a composed greeting Faber stepped across the 
threshold. From the first moment there was some- 
thing artificial and studied in his whole attitude of 
retaining his self-possession. 

The walls of the narrow anteroom were filled with 
books from floor to ceiling; thus also were the two 
rooms on the court, which served as bedroom, lava- 
tory and kitchen. The books, thrust closely together, . 
disguised every bit of wall; books and periodicals lay 
on tables and chairs, on the floor and on the stove, 
on the bed and on the window sills. There was left 
hardly any air'to breathe or room to move about in. 





It was the lodging of a man who lived in books, with 






books and from books. a 
F as if to himself. No dou! 
of the picture, at the famil 







+ 


at 


10 FABER 


Fleming’s appearance and the strange circumstance 
that he had actually arrived. But his dull brown eyes 
became serious again and he stared at the floor almost 
without seeing when Fleming began to talk in a voice 
that was remarkably clear for a man. 

Whatever did not Fleming say in his precipitation! 
What did he not ask! And how he exerted himself 
in repeating again and again the same questions and 
exclamations! He pressed his hands together, rubbed 
his fingers together, bent his head now to one side, 
now to the other, pushed his spectacles up on his fore- 
head and then down again on his thick nose, and spoke 
with increasing agitation and incitement, the more so 
because Faber made no attempts to discard his affected 
and carefully planned calmness. 

Naturally he wanted to know first of all how long 
since Faber had returned. Only yesterday he had 
visited Martina, he said, and Martina had no inkling 
of him. The last card from Faber had arrived six 
weeks ago, since then they had not heard from him. 
As a matter of fact he had contented himself for the 
last year and a half with writing postcards. For 
what precise reason? Everything so disconnected, so 
casual, almost strange; Martina had not known what 
to think of it. 

Faber remained silent. 

While he shuffled up and down in his tattered felt 


FABER II 


slippers and occasionally measured him timidly from 
the side, Fleming lamented: “We simply could get no 
information. Your mother visited the ministries and 
the embassies day after day. Clara’s husband tele- 
graphed three times to the exchange commission, all 
in vain; nobody was able to tell us where you were 
secreted. But all that, no doubt, has been told you. 
Now you are actually back with us! And you call on 
me, old Jacob Fleming. That is lovely, that pleases 
me. But do sit down, my dear fellow; why are you 
still standing?” | 

With breathless activity he lifted a pile of books 
from a chair and Faber sat down. As he remained 
silent, now as before enigmatically silent, Fleming 
found himself impelled perhaps by fear, perhaps out 
of his divined tactfulness, to continue his flood of 
words. “Well, how did you get along?” he inquired 
gently, his ten fingers pressing his chin; “you will call 
that a foolish question, and you are right. We at 
home finally lived on as we always did, even though 
the face of the world has taken on an insupportable 
aspect. Yes, it has that, you may well believe me, a 
detestable, hypocritical face, especially in the opinion 
of a man of my type. What did Martina say when 
you arrived so suddenly? What did she do in her 
happiness? My God, how often we spoke of you, 
how many evenings we sat together and thought of 


12 FABER 


you. And the child, Christopher—how did he strike 
you? He isa chip of the old block; now that I look 
at you I have to smile at the resemblance. You know 
that we are great friends, he and I? After the death 
of your father he would take walks solely with me. 
It must be a peculiar sensation to see again as a nine- 
year-old the son you left at three. How did he con- 
duct himself? Did he know you? Why don’t you 
answer? Do say something .. .” 

Faber said finally, with his eyes on his knees: “I 
arrived only two hours ago. I notified no one and 
have seen no one, neither Martina, nor the child, nor 
my mother, nor my sister, nor any one else.” 

The trace of an unhealthy blush disappeared from 
Fleming’s round cheeks and they became the colour 
of dough. He stuttered; finally his jaw dropped and 
one saw gaps and gold crowns in his teeth. | 

“Tt is as I tell you,” Faber nodded; “don’t ask me, 
I can explain nothing to you. Give me a bite to eat, 
anything, I am hungry.” 

Fleming persisted for a time, then went hurriedly 
and clumsily into his bedroom. There Faber heard 
him murmur, walk about and clatter among the dishes; 
a few minutes later he brought a metal tray on which 
he had fairly neatly and appetizingly placed bread, a 
few cuts of smoked ham on a plate, a carafe of water 
and a glass. He cleared a second chair of books and 


FABER 13 


brochures, sat down opposite Faber, and with hands 
that betrayed his uneasiness watched the latter greedily 
gulp bread and ham and thereupon drink the whole 
carafe of water without making use of the glass. 

“Now let me rest up for an hour,” Faber pleaded, 
and looked about the room. He discovered the loung- 
ing chair covered with shabby leather, which also had 
a contrivance for reclining in it, walked over to it, 
threw himself down with a deep sigh and closed his 
eyes. 

Fleming did not let his perturbed look leave him. 
Eyes could hardly contain an expression more reveal- 
ing of helplessness and care. He knew sufficiently 
well that it would be impossible under any circum- 
stances to get this obstinate and extraordinarily close- 
mouthed person to talk so long as he did not wish to. 
After a short time he saw that Faber had fallen asleep. 


II 


HE now had leisure to observe his face. He became 
convinced that it was the same handsome face of ten 
and twenty years ago, the characteristic Faber face, in 
which gentleness and severity, noble stock and untamed 
instinct, crowded one another closely. All four chil- 
dren had belonged to this type. 

A certain line between the eyebrows struck his no- 
tice, a deep furrow such as one finds in a dog. But 
in that he could read nothing, see nothing, guess 
nothing. 

For many years Jacob Fleming had the habit of 
keeping a record of his contacts and experiences with 
humankind. He was interested in the events that 
make history, and in the possibility of uncovering 
analogies entangled and obscured by time. Among his 
papers, just as in police headquarters or a secret service 
office, there could be found exhaustive documents and 
clippings about persons with whom he was intimately 
associated. When he had lost sight of this or that 
one for a long period he looked back in his memo- 
randa and by a learned synthesis tried to construct 
their further fate from the notes at hand. Often 
good fortune attended him and he hit upon the truth. 

He possessed among others a detailed memorandum 

14 


FABER 15 


on the Faber family, with which he had become asso- 
ciated more than eighteen years ago as tutor and ad- 
visor. He had merely to put his hand into a drawer 
to have the written data before him. Opening it 
softly he turned to one of the last pages and read the 
following passage: 

“What will become of Martina without Eugene? 
How will she exist? The question suggests itself 
tentatively in view of his absence, which may last for 
months; but what will happen if he does not return, 
if he dies in battle—which God forbid! It is just as 
impossible to imagine his existence when separated 
from her. It cannot be denied—and circumstances 
have proved absolutely—that these two beings not only 
seem to have been destined for each other since eter- 
nity, but also have formed a complete unit ever since 
they met, in their most impressionable years, and can 
only be considered as one. Everybody perceives this, 
even the stupid and careless, and the thought that the 
future may hold a catastrophe for them fills one with 
terror.” 

Again and again his glance returned to these lines, 
and after reading them he raised his nearsighted eyes 
timorously to the sleeping man. Then he again began 
turning the leaves, read a page here, another there, and 
one could see by the expression on his face that much 
of the past revived in his memory. 


16 FABER 


Strange house, strange agglomeration of human 
beings. Parents who voluntarily relinquished their 
authority over their children: children for whom the 
words obedience and discipline were ridiculous sounds. 
No regulation, no order, no harmonious proportion, 
no religious ties nor deep piety; everything based 
solely on accidental agreement and mutual understand- 
ing determined by mood and choice. Various anno- 
tations indicated the discontent of the writer with the 
views ‘and living conditions that he found here and 
the pains he took to find some reason for them, or 
some excuse in the general tendency of the times. 

Dr. Faber, a popular physician, had Slavic blood in 
his veins from his mother’s side, whereas through his 
father he was descended from an old south German 
family of patricians. Anna, his wife, also had mixed 
blood, her father having been a Scotch immigrant in 
Hanover. She was likewise the restless element of 
the house; she dominated it, laid stress on the rights 
of the individual and decided the way he should go. 
As champion for the rights of her sex she engaged 
in public work, directed a periodical for women, or- 
ganized women’s clubs and spoke at assemblies; even 
in the home circle she preferred expressions and pe- 
riods with which she was accustomed to create enthu- 
siasm in masses of listeners, and she liked to intoxi- 
cate herself with the passionate character of her own 


FABER 17 


speech. Dr. Faber gave her free rein in every par- 
ticular and, far from underrating her rather noisy 
and varied activity, showed, in his quiet way, an almost 
childlike admiration for her strong character and her 
untiring idealism. The historian often expressed his 
respect and partiality for this man, whose distinction 
and calm patience stood in happy contrast to the haste 
and bustle of all men who surrounded him. He liked 
especially a certain reserve, unusual in the mature 
member of a practical profession, which provided a 
happy background for his words and acts and led 
those with whom he dealt to give themselves freely, to 
act, as it were, always in the open. Fleming never 
heard him grumble or engage in unfriendly criticism. 
Although like most physicians he possessed a sarcastic 
and deeply sceptical nature, he never permitted him- 
self to judge a man unsympathetically, not even when 
he had suffered injury at his hands. It even happened 
that he allowed his children to correct him, when in 
their view he had mistakingly favored such a person; 
he then showed respectful attention toward his children, 
which the historian described with badly disguised 
disapproval. 

Fleming discovered with grave concern that the 
‘doors of the house were open to every one. It was 
difficult for him to assemble his students, and the 


numerous outside influences proved an interruption, in 


18 FABER 


spite of the children’s talents and their eagerness to 
learn and to accept. Every one found welcome and 
shelter, whether they were seeking sanctuary or in 
need of entertainment, poor devils without lodging or 
intellectual idlers who wanted to gossip far into the 
night and dreaded the trip home. Sometimes Anna 
Faber and her children moved to the chamber in the 
attic, while persons almost strangers used the bed- 
rooms. “An unfortunate conglomeration,” Fleming 
once complained in his book. “At nine in the evening 
they eat dinner; guests are still arriving at midnight 
and demanding advice, more or less urgent, and sup- 
port for their various ideas and occupations. To 
think of putting the children to bed is then out of the 
question; they want to know, see, and hear everything, 
and are initiated into everything. Surprises of a se- 
rious nature are not lacking: day before yesterday I 
found Clara asleep in a wardrobe.” 

They lived from hand to mouth; were in debt to 
merchant and grocer, butcher and baker, without this 
causing any concern to Anna Faber. Dr. Faber was 
not able to meet this confusing expenditure with the 
returns from his practice, because he accepted no 
money from most of his patients. Months often 
passed before they paid Fleming his salary; but as it 
was taken for granted that he would wait, and no ex- 
cuses were made, and no one doubted that he wished 


FABER 19 


to share, not only every luxury, but also every want of 
this family, Fleming suppressed all feeling of dissat- 
isfaction, especially as he became more and more at- 
tached to his pupils, and particularly to Eugene, the 
third in age. 

Thereupon his apprehensions regarding their future 
and development grew. Unrestrained liberty of action 
often gave the appearance of dissoluteness. Whatever 
they undertook—whether they engaged in a scuffle, a 
pleasure that even Clara did not forgo, or one or the 
other suddenly disappeared for days from the presence 
of the teacher and governor, to bob up again late at 
night, filled with tales of secret adventure, tattered 
and dirty—all this was tolerated by their mother and 
eventually commended. She said that she wanted to 
train her children to be spiritually independent. Flem- 
ing was eager to know what she meant by that, and 
when he dryly rejected her extravagant explanation, 
Dr. Faber joined in and suggested in good-natured 
irony that although she had admonished her children 
against snap judgment when they were still in the 
cradle, she did not yet believe in judgment. She 
raised a threatening finger, but he looked down from 
his lean height on the plump and fiery little woman 
with friendly tolerance. 

One evening a violent dispute over viewpoints arose 
between the two. Karl, who was reaching the end of 


g 
+ 


20 FABER 


his seventeenth year and pursuing a definite aim in 
life, had told his father that he meant to study bac- 
teriology. Dr. Faber made known his disapproval 
with striking severity. It appeared that not only did 
he consider an academic career undesirable for one of 
his sons, in view of the fact that it could give him no 
economic security and protection, but that he had other 
reasons for opposition which he failed to disclose, but 
which, as Fleming surmised, were rooted deep in his 
nature. In a hidden corner of his mind he cherished 
a secret hatred against learning. Anna therefore took 
sides with her oldest son all the more vehemently. She 
surpassed herself in flowery periods and declared that 
to divert a young man from the path that his inner 
self showed him was a crime of which she would not 
be guilty and from which she wanted to keep the 
atmosphere of her house unsullied. Dr. Faber was 
silent at that. A much later entry by Fleming at this 
point of the report remarked: “How much better if 
he had only spoken and come out against this mis- 
fortune, of which he may have had some forebod- 
ing!” 
Although in this case conditions as well as indi- 
viduals are viewed through the eyes of a third person 
with a ratler narrow viewpoint, the fact remains that 
Anna Faber exérted a baneful a on her“ ehil- 
dren, despite her passionate friendliness and her un- 


» 


“ 





FABER . 21 


bounded love for them; in the case of one of them, 
the weak and romantically inclined Roderick, who was 
a year younger than Karl, her influence was obviously 
detrimental. This was also the cause of numerous 
earnest arguments between her and Fleming, which 
gradually lost their character of disinterested opposi- 
tion, and brought about a rupture at the beginning of 
the fifth year of his relations with the house, when 
two different events, coming at the same time, sud- 
denly alienated him completely. 

At that time the Fabers employed a pretty maid, a 
happy, lively child hardly seventeen years old. After 
a period the girl lost her cheerful mood and when 
Anna Faber one day anifably asked why she grieved 
she confessed that she was pregnant. Her despair 
was increased because she feared the anger of her par- 
ents, who were simple and strait-laced working people, 
living in a suburb. Her confession disclosed that 
Roderick had betrayed her, and’ when the lad was 
questioned by his mother he did not deny the accusa- 
tion, but treated the whole matter from the standpoint 
in which he had been brought up—considering it as 
an annoying but nevertheless natural episode. Anna 
Faber adopted the same viewpoint, took the frightened. 
young maid, who» was almost dying from? disgrace, 
most considerately under her wing, goin her and 
released her from all’ arduous work, moreover took 


“ 


“a9 FABER 


her into the family circle and without pride of place 
or secret reservations treated her as her own daughter. 

At about the same time there died a friend of Dr. 
Faber, a sculptor named Wiedmann, leaving orphaned 
and wholly destitute his only daughter Martina, of 
the same age as Clara. Martina had no relatives, no 
home, no shelter; Dr. Faber did not hesitate long, but 
brought her to his children, with whom she was to 
grow up from that time on. 

In this way the family was increased by two, and 
the son’s sweetheart ate at the same table with the 
daughter of the house and the other sons, and the 

. Stranger, Martina. This troubled Fleming, whose 
mental attitude was middle-class. "He might have 
accepted the situation as he did other cases were it 
not for a circumstance that antagonized him too much. 
The. pregnancy of the little maid was talked in 
unusual coolness and in detail before every one; when- 
ever a difficulty about her future position came up it 
was discussed by all, both Dr. Faber and the fourteen- 
year-old Clara taking part. Views were exchanged on 
the future relations of Roderick to the girl, the time 
of her confinement was computed, the question whether 
the child would be of male or female sex was con- 

„sidered and names were proposed which it should bear 
" in one case or the other. Fleming was not only hurt 
almost unbearably when he observed the blushing, em- 


FABER 23 


barrassed face of the young servant, but so greatly 
pained by the presence of Martina that at times he had 
difficulty in suppressing a desire to take her by the 
hand and lead her away. She sat there silent, her 
hands in her lap, her head slightly bowed in roguish 
fashion, listening with staring eyes and wavering be- 
tween a smile and shocked curiosity. 

The notes revealed that the innate sweetness of the 
girl had a clearly recognizable effect on Fleming. He 
‘never mentioned her without adding a word of admi- 
ration; even the magic bond which already united her 
and Eugene in the early years, was detected by Flem- 
ing’s clear sight when it was unnoticed by others and 
unknown to themselves. Once he recorded that never 
in his life had he met any one so like a flower and so 
genuine down to her inmost self; opinions such as 
these make comprehensible the resoluteness with which 
he opposed Anna Faber. One day he told her frankly 
that he could not accept any further responsibility for 
the education of her children; besides, Karl and Rod- 
erick had been attending the gymnasium for a year 
on his advice; the time had come likewise for Eugene 
to enter the technical high school, as he wished, and 
to exchange the dangerous hothouse atmosphere of 
private instruction for work together with boys of the 


same age, which should both polish and harden him. * 


As for Clara, it was his conviction that she needed not 


“a 


24 FABER 


his, but feminine guidance. Therefore he considered 
himself superfluous and ready to leave. The family 
contradicted him energetically; Dr. Faber said they 
had become entirely too used to him to think of losing 
him. Karl and Roderick begged him to stay, Eugene 
became angry, Clara mocked at his peevish scrupulous- 
ness; every day his decision was attacked anew, but 
Fleming merely shook his head. When finally Anna 
Faber, having become impatient, demanded in her 
brusque manner the real reason of his disloyalty, as 
she called it, he considered it his duty to tell her the 
truth. He explained that he did not tolerate her views 
of life, nor her pedagogical principles, nor her attitude 
as wife and mother. If there was one thing on which 
he could not bring his views to agree with hers, it 
was the lack of erotic discipline, and the departure 
from custom and social tradition, which she, boastful 
of her own absolute power, treated almost frivolously. 
He recognized in such conduct merely the roots of 
incurable evils and did not wish to be an accomplice 
any longer. 

At first Anna Faber laughed whole- neal then 
she became insulting; one word called forth another 
and the result was that Fleming left the house that 
same day. Fleming had described the scene between 
himself and Anna in his notes with all details, espe- 
cially those which emphasized her blindness, and he 


FABER 25 


had not forgotten to mention that as, hot with anger, 
he left the room, Martina and Eugene came toward 
him hand in hand and watched him silently, the lad 
reproachfully and proudly reluctant, the gracious girl 
with that roguish wide-eyed astonishment which always 
forced him to lower his eyes before her. He again 
emphasized the conviction that came to him at this 
excited moment like a joyous revelation, that these 
two beings apparently represented an alliance that 
seemed to have been created and desired by Providence 
itself. This actually became a symbol to him, and a 
sort of creed that was strengthened during the rare 
visits that he later made to the house, and whenever 
Eugene and Martina came to him to pass an hour in 
harmless gossip. 

A few months after the disagreement he answered 
a call to Rome and for one and a half years worked 
in the Vatican library. During this time his relations 
with his former friends were completely broken; even 
communications stopped. When he returned about 
the middle of the year 1909 he was asked to partici- 
pate in an encyclopedia, and in order to do the work 
within the time agreed upon he lived for weeks like a 
recluse. One day a colleague from the seminary came 
to him and related quite casually among other news that 
the young Karl Faber had developed blood poison after 
making a daring experiment with bacteria through in- 


26 FABER 


jecting himself, and that he had died in twelve hours. 
He had been buried the day before. 

Fleming was shocked to the marrow. He left 
everything in disarray and hurried to the Fabers, 
wondering only how to excuse his apparent lack of 
attentiveness. There he met a group of people, who 
were gossiping about irrelevant topics. The doctor 
greeted him with quiet heartiness, Anna pressed his 
hand, inquired about his welfare, and continued a 
conversation already begun. Every topic was dis- 
cussed except that of the dead lad. No expression of 
mourning or grief over the dead was apparent. 

In this Fleming again traced the uncanny power 
that went out from Anna Faber; her inflexible cour- 
age, her belief in life and in herself, which nothing 
could shake. Although she may be torn with grief 
within she hides it under a cultivated ease and com- 
pels her guests, her children, and her husband to look 
on the past as if the death of a dearly beloved man 
were not more than a little outing into the mountains. 
It lightened Fleming’s burden considerably when he 
found Martina in tears in an adjoining room, through 
which he had to pass in order to reach that of Eugene. 

He learns that Martina and Eugene are engaged. 
The young domestic is no longer in the house, but her 
child, the two-year-old Valentine, lives with the family 
and is being brought up by Anna Faber. He asks for 


FABER 27 


Roderick. Eugene shrugs his shoulders. His brother 
has been away from his family for months and com- 
pletely lost sight of. A very beautiful woman, known 
in this city as an adventuress, had caught him in her 
net, and while he was still sure that she loved him, 
had left for foreign parts with a half-discredited 
singer, first assuring Roderick in a deceptive letter that 
he was her only passion. He moves heaven and earth 
to discover her address; the trail leads to Paris and he 
succeeds in getting enough money together—even the 
mother adds a sum rather large for her means—and 
he decides to hunt for the woman and to win her back 
at all costs. He had never learned to give up anything; 
he had been accustomed since a child to indulge his 
romantic egotism and to oppose to the dictates of Fate 
the pretended rights of his sovereign personality. 

Fleming suspected the coming disaster. Everything 
seemed set to hurl into the abyss a life that was hover- 
ing over the edge of the precipice. At the turn of the 
year came the report that Roderick had shot himself 
in a little town on the sea in northern France. Anna 
Faber and Eugene went there and brought back fhe 
body. In his pocket was found an unmailed letter 
addressed to the woman in question, from which it 
was evident that he had lived with her in the mean- 
time and that she had discarded him again in a most 
humiliating manner. 


28 FABER 


This time the blow hit the father severely; he was 
almost a broken man. Anna remained unmoved. 
She had, as she expressed it, lost the noblest gem out 
of her crown. She was pleased to regard Roderick 
as a martyr to love, a modern Abélard, and she de- 
manded a blind worship of the idol from the two 
children who remained with her, from her husband 
and from Martina; while she taught her grandson, 
the son of the domestic, to revere his dead father as 
if the latter had won immortal fame. 

In consequence Fleming attempted to hold inter- 
course only with Eugene and Martina. His memo- 
randa were reduced to brief comment on the happiness 
of the two and how, as a sort of unorganized social 
body, they represented a model community, a theme 
which he varied with much satisfaction, and for which 
the most extravagant words were not out of place. 
Although he did not visit the young people frequently 
when they founded their household two years later— 
more out of fear of becoming burdensome than from 
any other cause—he was able each time to record an 
illuminating detail which demonstrated the complete 
harmony of this marriage. Although he appreciated 
Eugene’s calm and capable development, Martina 
seemed to him the soul and the creative power in this 
relationship. The qualities with which he credited 
her were often so unworldly that he was compelled 


FABER 29 


from time to time, after calmer consideration, to re- 
vise his views and to correct his manuscript. Thus 
he complained at times that she was hard to grasp. 
She seemed to elude every serious situation as the 
lizard escapes the grasping hand; thus with a joke, a 
shrug, and a mocking laugh she slipped away from 
much that she might eventually regret having over- 
looked and left undone. 

He watched over her during Eugene’s absence of 
years as over a valuable possession. But solely from 
a distance, and without her knowing it. He visited 
her rarely in her house, at least in the first years. He 
hoped she would call him. But she never called him. 
When he came she was glad; when he remained away 
she hardly noticed it. Later he visited the little Chris- 
topher quite regularly, but chose the hours for that 
purpose when he knew Martina was not at home. His 
memoranda contained only meagre indications of all 
this, and held not a syllable of observation or con- 


versation. 


III 


Ir was long past midnight when Faber awoke. He 
stared for a while into space, then turned his head 
toward Fleming and subjected him to a sharp scrutiny. 
For several seconds they looked silently at one an- 
other; finally Faber said: “You must tell me about 
father’s death. I know practically nothing. Just the 
brief report, months ago—nothing more. He reached 
the age of fifty-six years. Few for a man with his 
disposition. I always expected him to reach ninety, 
One is never prepared to have a father die. A father 
is like something eternal.” 

“He had a very delicate constitution in spite of his 


’ 


powers of resistance,’ said Fleming. 

“He was never sick, so far as I can recall,’ Faber 
continued. ‘Odd, that so many men die at fifty-six. 
It seems to mark an epoch in physical existence. Of 
what did he die? Was he aware of his approaching 
death? Did he suffer?” 

Fleming replied: “He had a degeneration of the 
heart muscles with symptoms of uremia. I do not 
believe that he deluded himself about his condition. 
He had the faculty of understanding his own body, 
and he was wholly at his ease up to the last moment. 

30 


FABER 31 


The evening before his death I sat for over an hour 
at his bedside and we exchanged views on all sorts 
of subjects. He said that some day when you re- 
turned you would find it difficult to open all the rusted 
locks with rusty keys. What he meant by that was 
‘not wholly clear to me.” 

“So? Did he say that?” remarked Faber, looking 
up with animation. ‘That seems clear to me with- 
out further explanation.”’ 

“Yes, yes, perhaps he meant our world as a whole,” 
Fleming admitted; “he had become dreadfully pessi- 
mistic about it. He said, for instance, that his life 
revealed one great fundamental error; from the start 
he had given all men a plus sign, rather than a 
minus sign. It was his way of expressing himself— 
what shall I call it?—a bit roundabout. But it is 
pretty certain that life no longer amused him and that 
he was peculiarly sensitive to certain persons. Shortly 
before he became ill he was visited by a young lawyer 
—a Dr. Emmerich—I do not know whether you know 
him. Formerly he visited a great deal at your home; 
in the last few years he had a hand in all sorts of 
shady affairs and also became speedily rich. I ob- 
served that your father became noticeably pale while 
conversing with him; suddenly he left the room. Out- 
side he had to vomit in disgust. He admitted to me 
that this had happened to him frequently for some 


32 FABER 


time; many persons and their talk filled him with in- 

surmountable disgust. Then, too, he became more 

and more serious. He was actually seen to smile only 

when Martina came. When she entered the room his 

face lighted up. Often she brought Christopher with, 
her; then he was completely occupied and forgot his 

illness.” 

“Well, you surely have something to tell,” said 
Faber, while the corners of his mouth twitched. 
“That remark about the rusted keys gives me much 
to think about. And how fares my mother? How is 
she getting on? Father’s legacy cannot have been 
large. She wrote me that she had moved to Clara’s. 
Does that satisfy her? Can she find her place in an 
unfamiliar household? Clara seems to have decided 
quickly on marriage; so our wild pet has become tame? 
And her husband—what sort of a man is he, this 
Hermann Hergesell ?” 

“T don’t associate with him,” Fleming replied, hesi- 
tatingly. “He is the only son of one of our richest 
manufacturers, Hergesell of the machine works—no 
doubt you will recognize the name. He has no trade, 
but is engaged in political activities on behalf of the 
counter revolution. I don’t know Clara’s attitude to- 
ward that, but I will admit that she has become tame. 
She has two children to whom she devotes herself 
exclusively, and whom your mother naturally spoils 


FABER 33 


as much as she can. Beyond that Anna Faber is no 
longer the woman she was. She too, like us all, has 
paid her tribute to Time.” | 

He paused, then his face darkened. “Why do you 
want to know all this from me?” he continued. “You 
will see her. Why do you inquire about your mother 
and your sister? You are going to see them. You 
ask about every one except Martina—why ?” 

He rose, removed his glasses, passed his hand over 
his eyes and groped for words with difficulty. “Why 
are you here with me and not with her?” he asked 
sternly. “What is the meaning of that? What has 
happened between you? Do you know how Martina 
has lived during all these years? How bravely she 
fought her way through with her child? Circum- 
stances became more and more straitened, and you 
know she was accustomed to have a bit of beauty and 
luxury about her. Christmas two years ago she told 
me in her easy way that she had been compelled to 
pawn the opal pendant that you gave her. She laughed 
about it, but there was no laughter in her heart. And 
then suddenly came this windfall in the sale of the 
marble group. No doubt she wrote you about that. 
It was the last work of her father and no one would 
have believed that it would find a purchaser. But 
there came the big public funds and the big surplus 
‘of money; people were eager to convert their paper 


34 FABER 


wealth into tangible property and so the capitalist ap- 
peared, in effect that lawyer, Emmerich, of whom I 
told you, and he took Wiedmann’s opus for a sub- 
stantial sum. That relieved Martina, and helped her 
generously. No doubt you know all that.” 

“Yes, I know that,” said Faber. 

“And the rest, that about the Princess, naturally 
you know that also.” 

“Yes, I know that too,” murmured Faber, his head 
bowed low. 

“Tf I judge rightly she has known the Princess a 
year and a half,” continued Fleming in a somewhat 
uneasy tone. “Of course she has changed during this 
time—that cannot be denied. The relationship or, 
better yet, the service, the duty that she has laid on 
herself, takes all her time. Beyond that there is the 
Princess herself. She naturally exerts great influence 
on Martina, tremendous influence. .. .” 

“I think so too,” said Faber, darkly. 

“In spite of that we would be greatly mistaken if 
we thought that she had thereby sacrificed her liveli- 
ness. And if any one should come and declare that 
she had been disloyal to you even—what am I saying? 
Loyalty!—I mean deep in her very soul—I would 
tear his lying tongue out of his mouth, you may be 
sure of that. You should have seen her when one of 
your letters arrived, or merely a sign of life. What 


FABER 35 


is the matter with you? What is happening to you, 
my dear old Eugene?” 

He had talked himself into such heat that he 
clutched his throat with his hand because his breath 
deserted him. In the meantime Faber had also risen 
and was looking down at the floor with a perturbed 
mein. After a silence that seemed endless he mur- 
mured as if unwillingly: “You are a faithful friend, 
Fleming, and you are right in everything you say. 
But I can’t answer you. Yes, you are right,” he re- 
peated even more softly, with a slight shrug of the 
shoulders, “but there are things which cannot be 
explained, no matter how much I should like to 
speak.” 

“The devil take such things,” cried Fleming, pacing 
up and down and gesticulating convulsively. “Either 
you are entirely insane or you are no longer the same 
man and they have done something frightful to you, 
the scoundrels.” 

Faber let him rave on for a while, then touched him 
on the sleeve; when Fleming calmed down he placed 
both hands on his shoulders and gazed calmly at him 
with his large, beautiful eyes. “Can you comprehend 
how long a year lasts when one is alone?” he asked 
with a wry smile. “Imagine it yourself—a single 
year. And then multiply this horror by five. Every | 
dream that you dream becomes an actuality, and the 


36 FABER 


words that reach you from without have a signifi- 
cance, an uncanny duplicity and penetration which 
shatters every illusion.” He became silent for a mo- 
ment, then continued in a changed tone: “Be silent, 
Fleming. Don’t spread the news and don’t lose your 
head over it. I am now going back to my room in 
the hotel and get a good sleep for once.” 


IV 


THE next morning Faber went to the house of the 
building corporation, where he had formerly had his 
offices. He spoke with one of the directors and con- 
vinced himself that he dared cherish no hope of being 
employed by the firm. It was true that its members 
worked with foreign capital, but they used only an 
insignificant number of salaried architects, and even 
these earned very little. At this time of universal 
calamity an independent venture was not to be 
thought of. 

He then sought out an architect who had been 
friendly to him, and who congratulated him heartily 
on his return, but who held out no better prospects, 
although he gave him some useful hints about men 
of influence to whom he should turn. 

He then loitered about the streets until late in the 
afternoon, and after moving in ever-narrowing circles 
stood before the house that contained Martina’s habi- 
tation and his own. An avenue of trees stood oppo- 
site; he sat down on a bench and gazed up at the win- ~ 
dows of the topmost story. It was a stately building 
dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, free 
from elaborate embellishment; the smooth walls were 

37 


38 FABER 


painted grey and the gable ends and window parts had 
a harmonious effect. 

Above, nothing was visible beyond immaculate cur- 
tains and the reflected splendour of the evening sky 
in the glass panes. Twilight fell; his gaze wandered 
up innumerable times and down again to the street; 
there he beheld a lad crossing the driveway to the 
entrance, held by the hand of a young woman and 
keeping up a lively gossip with his guide. Faber 
gripped the bench with distorted fingers, then he 
sprang up and dashed across. The two had disap- 
peared into the house, so he remained crestfallen at 
the door. Only after a long interval did he dare fol- 
low them, and then once more he caught the clear 
voice of the child high overhead. Again he paused; 
then step by step he sneaked up the four flights and 
stood silent as a thief before the apartment, support- 
ing himself on the banister while listening intently. 
Gradually the agitation died from his features; the 
banging of a door and a peremptory call aroused him 
and he retraced his steps. 

Meanwhile Fleming had hurried to Clara’s home in 
the morning and made his report to her and to Anna 
Faber. The two women looked at him as if they 
questioned his sanity, and Anna Faber made him 
repeat every word that Eugene had spoken. There 
were not so many that Fleming could not recall each — 


FABER 39 


one. He expressed the opinion that Faber would 
surely arrive in the course of the forenoon, and added 
that he had lacked the courage to go to Martina. 
Anna Faber wanted Martina to be informed by tele- 
phone; Clara restrained her with difficulty, saying that 
either he was already with Martina, in which case such 
action would be foolish and superfluous, or he had not 
yet made up his mind to go, in which event it would 
be useless and premature to disturb her. 

Fleming remained with the women until noon and 
every time the doorbell rang Clara sprang up and 
dashed out. Anna Faber found it difficult to restrain 
her impatience; she proposed that they make use of the 
police to locate the hotel where he was staying; hardly 
had she been argued out of this when she herself 
decided to go forth to search for him in the hotels 
near the station, and when Fleming remarked that she 
would have difficulty in finding him in even were her 
quest successful, she sobbed and broke into wild de- 
nunciation of the state of the world. Clara regretted 
that her husband was away; she said he had left the 
day before to visit a friend in the country. Fleming 
did not share her regret, for Hergesell was almost a 
stranger to him and he thought him unfitted to help 
because he was also a stranger to Eugene. 

Throughout the afternoon Anna Faber sat at the 
table with her head in her hands. After brooding for 


40 FABER 


hours in silence she turned to Clara with the remark: 
“Ts it possible that he has such:a bad conscience, such 
fear, that he is afraid to meet her face to face, her 
and me?” 

Clara, who had been taking long steps up and down 
the room, made a grimace as if she had been doused 
with cold water. “You mean, perhaps, that he has 
bought himself a Chinese wife?” she asked, smiling 
roguishly. ‘Don’t let us build romances, Mother—the 
reality won’t support it.” 

It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when he 
finally arrived. Anna Faber threw herself about his 
neck with a cry. He had to disengage himself from her 
with gentle firmness, but did not hide his emotion. 
Clara dropped her voice in amusing fashion and re- 
marked that she thought he had considered his ap- 
pearance for a long time from every standpoint. She 
then kissed him like a comrade and scrutinized him 
carefully from head to foot. 

When Anna Faber had composed herself sufficiently 
to ask him questions and he had explained that he 
had already dined, he knew that the dreaded cross- 
examination was bound to come. He felt it suffi- 
cient to shrug his shoulders, and his expression and 
glance betrayed so much uneasiness and disturbed 
thoughts that Anna gave up her attempts for the time. 
He related this and that about his crossing on the 


FABER 41 


American ship, also touched on his experiences in the 
months before, but for the most part uttered only in- 
complete sentences, which always sounded as if he 
regretted having begun them. He said he had for- 
gotten the art of conversation. His mother stroked 
his hand; he withdrew it slowly from her; obviously 
he was uncomfortable under her penetrating, inquir- 
ing gaze. The taciturnity of his sister seemed to con- 
fuse him no less; this was suggested by his roving eye. 

But Clara had made her decision. “I will leave you 
together for a while,” she said, nodded to Eugene, and 
departed. In the hall she threw a light mantle about 
her and left the house. In the vestibule she came upon 
Fleming. “Eugene is here,” she called to him. “I 
am going to Martina to bring her back. She has to 
be told, and the telephone won’t do.” Fleming ap- 
proved her errand and accompanied the hurrying 
woman to Martina’s house. 

Eugene asked his mother: “Are Clara’s children 
already asleep?” 

Anna replied that the children were with Herge- 
sell’s parents in the country; they were splendid girls, 
one blonde, one dark, of the Faber stamp. 

Faber inquired further how Valentine, Roderick’s 
‚son, had developed. 

Anna Faber’s face became clouded and Eugene ob- 
served that he had touched a wound. He wanted to 


42 FABER 


speak about something else, but Anna bent forward 
and asked searchingly: “And don’t you want to know 
how your own child is?” 

Eugene was silent and tried to force a smile. 

“You withhold yourself even from your mother 
after these years of absence, years of such sorrow— 
that is the bitterest thing that could happen to me!” 
exclaimed Anna Faber. 

“Be patient, Mother,” said Eugene, with a concilia- 
tory gesture, “I must first collect myself. I have to 
discover first where I stand and whether I still belong 
in your world.” He got up and walked around the 
room, scrutinizing pictures, vases, and glass. Anna 
followed him incessantly with her eyes. 

“Can you tell me what this affair with the Princess 
amounts to?” he remarked in a voice that sounded 
cold, while he examined a little ivory figure with ap- 
parent interest. “I ought to be better informed than 
I am, as she is discussed in practically every one of 
Martina’s letters. But I cannot picture her to myself. 
Perhaps you will help me do that. Is she really such 
an extraordinary woman as Martina describes her, 
something almost like a holy woman?” 

Anna Faber shrugged her shoulders. “A holy 
woman—not bad,” she replied in a derogatory man- 
ner. “It’s possible that she is a holy woman. So 
much the worse.” 


FABER 43 


“How do you mean that: ‘So much the worse’ ?” 

“Tt will do you no good to ask about the Princess,” 
muttered Anna Faber. “I am practically alone in my 
view. As it happens I do not know the woman per- 
sonally, for I associate with people only rarely, and I 
hear also that she is not what one calls sociable; on 
the contrary she seems to play a trifle the part of the 
aloof Unknown and appears only to a few favoured 
ones among her male and female followers. Martina 
denies that she has a following. Martina also says 
that she teaches nothing and demands nothing, no 
vows or anything of that sort. Also there are no 
pupils and no adepts. Well, what then? you ask. But 
you are answered by silence, haughty silence, as if 
you are not worthy to speak of the woman.” 

“Surely you merely imagine that, Mother,” said 
Eugene, in conciliation, and his voice betrayed how 
eager he was to hear more. 

Anna Faber continued with mounting agitation: 
“Everything I hear about this woman and everything 
I learn about her doings and her activity goes against 
my nature, as if some one had stepped up to me and 
said: “You and your whole life and your whole work 
have been merely a lie and a grimace.’ My feelings 
revolt. You comprehend that.” 

Eugene had withdrawn into a corner of the room 
that lay in deep shadow, as if he wanted to make him- 


44 FABER 


self invisible. “No, I don’t comprehend that, Mother,” 
he replied with gentle impatience; “you will have to 
explain more explicitly. I can make nothing of such 
comparisons. Let us stick to facts. Is it true that 
this woman has given an entirely new foundation to 
ever so many lives? A new spiritual or social foun- ~ 
dation, perhaps even a religious one—I don’t know 
for certain; I am guided merely by Martina’s com- 
munications. On the one hand they are very precise. 
Precision is one of her great virtues, but on the other 
hand she is being influenced so continuously that she 
does not know when she overstates or colours her 
facts. Persons on the outside are said to be often 
unable to notice that such a change has come about in 
her, a transformation of her whole self and character, 
and this, you may well believe, is chiefly what interests 
me. I should like to have a reply from you on that 
point, for if this is actually so, then we may conclude 
that it must be due to the peculiar power this woman 
exerts, a power that is to be feared and in contrast to 
which a few other circumstances, such as the fact that 
she has given up her station in life and the privileges 
of her birth, do not count. That may be due to clever 
calculation, acting, or exaltation—what you will. Only 
the one thing is pertinent.” 

He had spoken with extraordinary deliberation and 


FABER 45 


every sentence sounded as if he had prepared it a long 
time ago and had tested its significance in secret again 
and again. Anna Faber could hardly wait in her 
eagerness to reply. “I don’t know,” she cried, and 
rose abruptly, pushing her chair from her. “I did 
not investigate it and don’t bother myself about it. 
True or not, it remains objectionable.”’ 

“Objectionable? And how, Mother?” 

“Yes, objectionable. The turning from the beautiful, 
stately, simple things, to preserve which I and others 
like me made their sacrifices long ago. The world has 
become a dark place, my son. The spirit has abdi- 
cated and gone down into the grave. And now ghosts 
are having their uncanny rites. Hypocrisy and ma- 
terialism are at work shamelessly destroying what we 
built up so patiently with our heart’s blood. Sad 
indeed are the ravages of time in the souls of men— 
who will doubt it? Not that we lived wholly in the 
garden of Eden in former years, but in that day, if 
you became desperate, there were always a few good 
fighters left who would take sides with you against 
the enemy. What has become of them? There is not 
one left. They have gone down into the abyss and 
he who pronounces the word ‘Freedom’ runs the danger 
of being stoned. I ought to defend myself. I can do 
so no longer. I am tired, I am old, I have to stand 


46 FABER 


aside and witness how my seed is ground down into 
nothing.” She walked about with short, powerful 
steps and covered her face with her hands. 

“Naturally, Mother, we are sitting around on 
broken columns,” came the calm voice out of the 
shadow; “it is useless for you to try to fight against 
everything in general. You are also unjust when you 
blame the individual for the wreck of your life hopes. 
Has Martina complained to you about the Princess ?” 

“That I do not recall,” replied Anna Faber. “I be- 
lieve we had a short argument once, I felt myself 
bound to warn her. I don’t remember how the con- 
versation started and what the outcome was. It was 
about the time when Faith entered her house. I 
warned her against certain sectarian and clandestine 
activities and against certain personalities whose sole 
aim is to draw young persons into their sphere of 
influence and kill them spiritually.” 

“Well, and what did Martina say to that?” 

“I don’t remember now what she said. It seems 
to me that she actually said nothing. She looked at 
me and smiled. She is so rarely susceptible to argu- 
ment. When she has chosen her path she looks neither 
left nor right. Yet it is a secret to no one that she 
has fallen into this woman’s power, body and soul, 
and is still her victim. We saw it happen with horror 
and could do nothing against it. Just what you will 


FABER 47 


do about it is your affair. My instinct tells me that 
you face a very difficult task. Better get ready for a 
fight. If you need me, call me.” 

“Thank you, Mother,” said the cold voice. ‘I hope 
that I won’t need you.” 

He came out of the corner and murmured con- 
temptuously: “Fight? No. I don’t intend to fight. 
Who fights over such an issue is defeated at the 
start.” 

In order to avert a reply he turned his head and 
asked: “Where is Clara?” 

His mother, still struggling with her feelings, looked 
at him in confusion; thereupon he stepped to the door, 
opened it and cried: “Clara!” His voice held a note 
of fear. He went out into the hall and cried: “Clara!” 
A girl came out of the kitchen and stared wonderingly 
at him. He came back into the room and said to his 
mother: “Clara must have gone out. Where has she 
gone?” 

Anna Faber came toward him with a gentle gesture, 
but he stepped aside and turned to the door of the 
adjoining room like a fleeing man; he entered that 
and when his mother followed him he entered a second 
room beyond it and said: “If you two have set a trap 
for me you will have to answer for it to me.” Anna 
Faber turned on the light so that he could at least see; 
fear and dismay were pictured on his features and his 


48 FABER 


look seemed to plead: hide me. Just then both heard 
the door of the hall open, and heard Clara’s voice, and 
one other. Eugene remained standing, put his hands 
to his face, and began to tremble; but Martina was 
already entering, smiling a smile that was both tim- 
orous and cheerful; slender, much more slender and 
taller than his memory had pictured her. She wore 
a white straw hat trimmed with roses above her ash- 
blond hair and with her inexpressibly graceful stride 
she stepped toward him, 


V 


SHE embraced him gently; she kissed him gently; she 
drew him under the light and looked at him and 
laughed. Her eyes were wet, and with a perplexed 
expression she stammered a few words. “Everything 
is ready for you,” she said, “just come home, come 
home with me.” She turned to Anna Faber and to 
Clara, whose attitude of suppressed emotion height- 
ened her embarrassment, and asked in her bell-like 
voice, which trembled a bit, and with the touch of 
dialect that her speech contained: “Is it not urgent for 
him to go home at last? Don’t you think he has 
wandered around in the world long enough?” 

She did not wait for a reply, and probably did not 
want any; she locked her arm in his and, laughing 
again as if the humour of the situation was irresist- 
ible for her, and yet with a strange light in her eyes, 
she shook him out of his perturbed gaze and his un- 
natural frigidity. Before he knew how, they were 
out-of-doors and on the street. And she laughed, and 
in doing so bent forward to look into his face, search- 
ing to discover with what expression he received her 
laughter, whether he recognized it again, or whether 
he was still undecided and lost in thought, as before. 

49 


50 FABER 


She walked rapidly; now and then she stopped and 
caught her breath. There was nothing more captivat- 
ing than her walk; holding her pretty little soubrette 
nose high in the air and her left arm pressed closely 
against him, she began to talk, and it might have been 
expected that she would talk about Christopher—his 
life, his character, and his deeds. 

The boy must be an unusually original fellow, to 
judge by her description; or was it by design that she 
told only of events that permitted her to keep her 
words flowing in a lively channel? But perhaps not; 
she seemed so full of her subject, and her joy in telling 
was sincere. He was a solitary sort with leanings 
toward anarchy; he was deeply at odds with the world 
but mostly quite satisfied with himself. But his dis- 
affection made him attempt to accomplish something; 
he became a savior of the world who began with the 
destruction of everything that came into his hands in 
order to declare later that it had been defective. He 
was devoted to musing in quiet, but also possessed a 
foolish boastfulness; he not only found something to 
mend in all the tangible and visible things, but in a 
tricky way he was even ready to make suggestions to 
God. Yes, he was one of the self-righteous of this | 
earth, a malcontented philosopher, but despite that no 
stay-at-home, far from it; his tendency to breakneck 
climbing exercises made him the despair of his teachers | 





| 
| 


FABER 51 


and governors; besides he had a coarse partiality for 
all sorts of worms and crawling things—maggots, 
centipedes, spiders, and snails, of which he brought 
home great heaps, coming reeking with dirt and 
odours, the horror of his mother and his loyal aid, 
Faith. 

He is discovered playing theatre in a near-by barn 
—he alone; and he alone is prince and magician, 
general and good fairy, and the orchestra in addition. 
He wakes up in the middle‘of the night and finds his 
hair hanging dishevelled in his face; he turns on the 
light, takes the scissors aid in exasperation cuts off 
his locks. He imagines that he can fly; climbs one 
day on the roof of the house and to the consternation 
of passers-by waves his arms in the air. He wishes 
to train angleworms and like a simpleton tries to pour 
moonlight into a medicine flask. He gets wildly en- 
raged at men who use specific expressions in their 
speech and gives all household utensils—chairs, tables, 
clocks, stoves, chests—mongrel names of his own 
invention. | 

They had already reached the dwelling and Martina 
was still telling stories. She opened the door and led 
him in, first into Christopher’s bedroom. She turned 
up the night lamp and drew Faber to the bed. She 
was still enjoying herself, always, however, with that 
Strange light in her eyes, while she pointed to the 


52 FABER 


firmly doubled little fists that lay on the coverlet. 
Faber was moved; his lips trembled. He bent down 
and kissed the boy on his moist forehead. ~The lad 
opened his eyes, but closed them again at once, and 
turned on his side with grunts of displeasure. Faber 
went into the next room. The big lamp over the table 
was burning. He sat down. Martina had followed 
him, and now she seemed to become conscious for the 
first time that he had not yet uttered a syllable. This 
caused a pallor to spread over her cheeks and she di- 
rected her deeply penetrating look at him. But the 
inner tenseness and emotion which had made her grow 
pale passed and she said in lively fashion: “Well, shall 
we drink a glass of wine together on your return? I 
have a bottle of old Bordeaux which was intended for 
this moment. Will you?” 

She left the room and in a short time returned with 
the uncorked bottle and two goblets. She filled 
the glasses and raised her own. Leaning toward him 
and touching the rim of his glass with her own, she 
said with a sweet smile, while her eyes dropped: “To 
the future, Eugene.” 

“Yes, Martina, the future,’ he replied, and both 
drank. 

“Now I have really heard your voice,” said Martina 
laughingly, as she seated herself near him and grasped. 
his hand. He gladly permitted her to do so and 


FABER 53 


meantime he gazed at her own, gazed at it with a 
peculiar seriousness, as if to determine whether it was 
the same hand that he had known so well. Then his 
eyes roamed over the room and remained riveted on 
a certain spot between the doors. Martina’s picture, 
which he had drawn in pastel, formerly hung there. 
“What has become of the picture,” he asked; “why 
did you remove it?” She blushed. “I removed it 
long ago,” she replied; “I don’t remember for what 
reason. Oh, yes, Christopher did not like it; he cried 
Over it once and said that my face was not so green 
and so yellow as that.” She leaned her cheek against 
his shoulder as if seeking pardon and beneath the cloth ° 
his arm vibrated from her soft laughter, this peculiar, 
half ironical, half fervent laughter, which was an un- 
fettered expression of life itself; defence, flight, con- 
cealment. As if hurt thereby he asked whether she 
still found things of the world so amusing. She 
looked up at him with wrinkled forehead, but looked 
down again at once and thoughtfully shook her head. 
Just then the telephone rang outside. Eugene was 
astonished, for it was nearly midnight. Martina hur- 
tied out; he heard her speak hastily into the trans- 
mitter in a voice that he thought changed, colourless; 
there was question of a conference at a very early 
morning hour and an important decision; Faber rested 
his head on his hand. When she returned, her expres- 


34 FABER 


sion showed an effort to forget the interruption, but 
she sat down on another chair, far from Eugene. She 
called on him to drink and he sipped dutifully at the 
wine. Martina wanted to know a great deal about his 
former life, especially what his letters had not reported 
to her, but his meagre answers gave her no satisfaction. 

When she saw him so little disposed to speak she 
soon took charge of the conversation and reported 
about herself. But the telephone bell rang shrilly for 
the second time; she arose without any sign of annoy- 
ance or impatience and over the telephone gave an 
address which plainly had been demanded of her. She 
begged him almost humbly for forgiveness when she 
re-entered the room, and continued with her story. She 
passed from one thing to another, from adventures to 
persons, from a difficult situation to an amusing en- 
counter ; she described a day with its hurry and unrest, 
its fulness of men and fulness of occupations; then 
again an hour of rallying; a talk with a child, a trip 
on a rainy day, a meeting with Anna Faber, adven- 
tures with old friends and with new ones, some going 
far back, some more recent; the praiseworthy, dis- 
creet, and cheering efforts of Jacob Fleming; every- 
thing in one colourful medley, disconnected and frivo- 
lous, as if the bitterness of life had long ago lost its 
tang and the harshness of fate could no longer affect 
a nature like her own. And in between she hurried 


FABER 55 


into an adjoining room to procure chocolate which she 
offered Eugene; she went to a spray of orchids stand- 
ing on a round table in a corner and inhaled the odour 
while lost in contemplation; she stepped to Eugene’s 
side and stroked his hair with a gentle hand. 

No doubt she observed the dark amazement in his 
eyes and how deeper shadows spread more and more 
over his features as the night progressed. It was thel 


amazement of a man who sees events transpire just as | 
he feared they might during a period of oppressive | 


melancholy ; amazement at its realization, at the agree- | 


ment of fiction and actuality, knowledge and intuition. | 


But even in Martina’s eyes, wholly aside from her 
exhaustion, there was such amazement, a regretful, 
painful, and yet even reciprocal amazement, of mixed 
surprise and sorrow, and all her laughter and smiles 
could not convey the illusion of ease which she was 
trying so hard to convey. Finally she glanced at her 
wrist watch and remarked that it was time for sleep. 
Faber became very pale and looked expectantly at her. 
Looking down at her folded hands she informed him 
with childlike eagerness, as if she had carefully thought 
out everything that might minister to his comfort, 
that she had had the former guest room put in order 
for him weeks ago. He nodded and smiled as if grate- 
ful and they walked down the corridor together to the 
door of the room. Here Martina threw her arms 


1 


} 


56 FABER 


around him and kissed him and softly said good night 
and left him. But after entering the room Eugene 
stood, at first as if stunned; then he threw himself on 
the bed and buried his face in the pillow. 


VI 


HE awoke at dawn after a short, deep sleep and 
hearkened to the confused commotion of the house. 
Thereupon he was overcome by a disquieting sensa- 
tion, as if some one had entered the room while he 
was still sleeping. He raised his head and actually 
beheld a little fellow standing at the door and looking 
fixedly in the direction of the bed with an expression 
of curiosity, spite, and deviltry in his wide-open grey 
eyes. Faber uttered a happy exclamation and extended 
his arms for the lad. The latter came toward him 
-with grave earnestness and said quickly, at the same 
time obviously steeling himself against the inward 
emotion that affected him: “I don’t like very much to 
see a man lie in bed.” 

Faber had to laugh; he took the boy’s hands and 
drew him toward him. “Why don’t you like it?” he 
asked. | 

“Grandfather also lay in bed during the daytime 
and then he was dead. Besides, it’s so womanish.”’ 

“Do you know who I am?” asked Faber, when he 
had kissed him heartily, almost passionately, on both 
cheeks and on both eyes. | 

“Yes, I know,” replied Christopher emphatically, 

57 


58 FABER 


“and I’m glad to have a father once more. Just to 
be with women gets tiresome. And the other fellows 
have no respect for one, either.” 

Faber held the child in his left arm and he sub- 
mitted only gradually to the gentle embrace, as if in 
forgetfulness. “Do you still remember me?” he con- 
tinued, hungrily sniffing the odour of the boy’s hair, 
which was different from that of six years ago. 

Christopher looked at him sharply and shook his 
head. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “but I am satisfied 
with you. We will get acquainted. I hope you don’t 
have so much to do as mother has.” 

“Has mother much to do?” 

“I should say so! She is away the whole day, 
often also evenings and on Sunday too. Only Faith 
is always here. She is very dear, is Faith.” 

“Good,” said Faber, ‘‘we’ll see whether we can get 
along together. But you must not lose patience, for, 
you understand, I have not associated with boys for 
many years.” 

Christopher nodded. ‘‘Now I have to go to school,” 
he explained, resignedly. “In the afternoon I am 
free; then you will tell me your adventures. Yes?” 

Faber promised to do so. 

He dressed slowly. In wardrobe and commode he 
found clothing and linen at hand; everything neat, 
everything in its place as if he had departed yester- 


FABER 59 


day. Martina had left the house at an early hour; 
she sent him word by Faith that she would return at 
noon. The happy look radiating from the messenger 
and the charming resolute manner in which she gave 
him her hand in welcome caught his eye. She was 
fairly tall, of the brunette type, unusually attractive in 
carriage and manner and might be about twenty-six 
years old. 

He knew from Martina’s letters that she had been 
in the house about ten months. In October of the 
previous year Martina had written that the Princess 
had made her acquainted with a young woman who 
was without friends or occupation, and that at the 
request of the Princess she had taken Faith into her 
home. What constituted the difficulty Martina did 
not say, and in a later letter she acknowledged freely 
that she did not know and that there was an unspoken 
agreement between them to leave it unmentioned. As 
the Princess was carefully informed about Faith’s 
past Martina could be at ease, especially as the young 
girl had won her full confidence. And again in 
another letter she had touched on the duality of 
Faith’s position, for despite the friendship that united 
them many delicate situations came up. To pay her 
friend was out of the question; Faith was poor, yet 
she considered herself wholly reimbursed by the 
Shelter Martina afforded her and proudly and anx- 


60 FABER 


iously avoided every discussion of money and finan- 
cial matters. And her tasks were heavy; not only had 
she taken complete charge of Christopher, whose at- 
tachment she had won, but the management of the 
little house had been turned over to her, and Mar- 
tina could devote herself with a clear conscience 
to the duties and obligations that now took up her 
day. 

This much, therefore, Faber knew. 

As he sat at the breakfast table and let his glance 
wander in melancholy fashion about the room he was 
again struck by the vacant spot between the doors 
where Martina’s portrait had hung many years ago; 
more clearly than in the evening he observed the 
darker square on the blue wallpaper. Faith entered 
to clear the table; he asked her about the picture. She 
looked up and seemed surprised. “The picture of the 
Princess?’ she asked. “No,” he replied, “I mean the 
picture of my wife, a pastel portrait in a black frame.” 
Surprise spread over Faith’s features. “Oh, that!” 
she said, reflecting. “I have never seen that here on 
the wall; it hangs yonder in your chamber, where your 
notebooks and drawing boards are preserved.” Faber 
looked as if to say that he found the banishment com- 
prehensible. “Of course it is no masterpiece,” he re- 
marked. “I painted it myself, you understand, and 
in painting I am a hopeless dilettante. Will you be 


FABER 61 


so good as to hand it to me?” Faith said she would 
do so gladly and went out. 

After a few minutes she returned, dragging the pic- 
ture, which was fairly heavy; Faber relieved her of 
it, carried it to the window and regarded it. “Well, 
yes,” he ened with elevated eyebrows; “yellow— 
green—it is true, and yet—” He turned to the silent 
Faith and said: “You referred to another picture, the 
picture of the Primcess. Was that hanging there? 
And why is it no longer there?” 

“I don’t know that,” Faith replied, shaking her 
head slowly. “It hung there until a few days ago. 
A pencil sketch; only the head; a good work, so far 
as I understand it, and the only picture of her that 
we know. I don’t know why Martina has removed 
it. Oddly enough, I did not even miss it.” 

“And what has become of it?’ Faber inquired 


tensely. 
“Yes, what has become of it?” replied Faith, with 
her index finger caressing her chin, “Wait! Per- 


haps it is in Martina’s bedroom, in the clothespress. 
It seems to me that she spoke about the glass being 
broken.” Again she went out and actually returned 
after an interval with this picture. It was practically 
as big as the other and also in a black frame. She 
placed it against the table and said: “Correct, the 


glass is broken.” 


62 FABER 


Faber did not catch her words; his eyes concen- 
trated at once on the face of the woman, which now 
appeared before him for the first time. 

It was a face well fitted to impress the observer, 
whether or not he knew whom it represented. 

The woman seemed to be about sixty years old. 
Her head was covered with a hood and thereby re- 
minded one of a nun or an abbess, but the edge had 
a fringe of lace, which doubtless pointed to worldli- 
ness and permitted a glimpse of her plain, parted hair. 
The face, extraordinarily narrow, showed lines of ap- 
pealing gentleness, and every feature—brow, cheeks, 
mouth, chin, and the position of the eyes—was so 
thoroughly regular that one might suspect the portrait 
painter of having improved on nature because he could 
not capture it. But this was contradicted by the fact 
that the expression of the features gave the picture a 
convincing likeness to life. The face was covered 
with a certain serenity as with a transparent veil, an 
expression of contemplation mingled with pain and 
madonna-like nobility, so that there came about a 
floating interplay of contrasts, what she perceived 
being obliterated by what she feared, and destiny 
moulding the features so that the pencil of the artist 
found itself so helpless that both the eye and the 
imagination became undecided and sought support in 


the realm of experience. 


FABER 63 


Faith’s glance travelled from Faber to the picture, 
from the picture to Faber, and it seemed as if she 
sought eagerly and excitedly to discover the effect 
that it had on him. “It does not give the right im- 
pression,” she said. “Her personality is lacking. The 
smile is lacking. This woman has teeth like a seven- 
year-old girl, and when she smiles her pale face 
is suffused with rose. This always astonishes every 
one.” 

She could not wait for Faber’s reply, in the event 
he was moved to make one, because the doorbell rang. 
In her stead Jacob Fleming entered the room trans- 
figured, with hands outstretched. Faber greeted him 
in friendly fashion, but distracted. His attention was 
still held by the picture. After he had exchanged a 
few superficial remarks with Fleming he indicated 
the sketch with a nod of his head and asked: “Now 
what is your opinion of the lady?” 

Fleming pursed his lips, removed his glasses, wiped 
them ostentatiously with a corner of his handkerchief, 
and finally replied: “There is something in your atti- 
tude that challenges me to offer a criticism. But you 
are knocking at the wrong door. Probably you have 
‘been told things that do not sound plausible. Does 
not the face please you? The picture is lifelike, very 
lifelike. As if she were alive, as we are wont to 


Say.” 


64 FABER 
“Why all this?’ Faber interrupted him testily. 


“Answer me freely and direct.” 

“Yes, if that were so easy,” parried Fleming. 
“What is my humble opinion to you? You can ask 
twenty men and every one will give you a different 
reply. The reason is probably that all twenty will be 
below the level. I have to fear the same thing. A 
man gets to feel dwarflike, like a four-year-old chap 
who cannot see the objects on the table and so stands 
on tiptoe.” 

Faber made an impatient gesture. “Extravagance,” 
he murmured. “I grew up with extravagant state- 
ments. You will remember we used to call it ‘stepping 
on the pedal’ when my mother got into the superla- 
tives. But you were always rather a composed person 
and no friend of the loud pedal. What has brought 
you to such giddiness ?” 

“Giddiness ?” cried Fleming, amusingly embarrassed, 
“Tt’s not a question of giddiness. I have never been 
giddy my life long, my good Eugene. You are get- 
ting provoked at an innocent man, really.” 

“Don’t let us quarrel,’ said Faber, appeasingly. 
“Short and sweet: You know the Princess?” | 

“Yes, I know her. That is to say, I have talked 
with her two or three times, and I have been present 
three or four times when she talked with others. To 


FABER 65 


a certain extent I am a part of the edifice. I have 
been a teacher there for several weeks.” 

“Where ?” 

“Why, where Martina is also. In the Children’s 
City.” 

“Children’s City? Is that what you call it?” 

“Yes, we call it that.” 

“As you know the woman you must be able to tell 
me who she is and what she is like.” 

Fleming moved perplexedly in his chair. “Natu- 
tally,” he stammered; “at least to some extent. Only 
I don’t comprehend—” But Faber’s darkening face 
frightened him and he continued hastily: “I merely 
doubt that I will be able to satisfy you in personal 
matters. You no doubt know that she comes from 
one of our oldest noble families. Recently a man 
who is a competent genealogist assured me that she 
is related to and kin of all the European courts and 
dynasties, the fallen as well as those still in power. 
But I am an old democrat and this does not impress 
me. We know almost nothing of her past. There is 
a report that about her thirtieth year she lived for a 
long time as a novice in an Ursuline convent and that 
then, for some reason or other, she withdrew. It is 
said that fateful experiences called her back to the 
world, but as I remarked, we know nothing about that. 


66 FABER 


We are also not clear about her financial circumstances. 
One branch of the family is rich; that to which she 
belongs is said to have become impoverished. But this 
does not prevent her from disposing continuously of 
considerable means. It is true that the community has 
halfway presented her with the ground and the bar- 
racks, but merely their bare upkeep demands large 
sums. She contributed her own possessions up to the 
last cent, but that was a mere drop in the bucket. The 
situation is this: friends back her up. For these 
friends the matter must constitute an unusual case. 
Nobody knows them, nobody names them. Usually 
money for this sort of institution is raised by capi- 
talists with philanthropic views; often they are good 
people, often less good, often social pioneers, often 
opportunists and people salving a bad conscience. In 
this case they are unseen and nameless patrons, or an 
organization of patrons with a centralized power. She 
carries herself as if she were a delegate, the commis- 
sioner of an order as secretive as it is far-reaching. 
The whole matter is full of mystery. This applies 
to its character, its goal, and its direction. Ac- 
cording to my view religious currents come in here; it 
resembles a great work of regeneration under a mys- 
terious dictatorship. But you cannot see through it. 
You can merely trace something new, something that 


is different from everything heretofore. You observe 


FABER 67 


how carefully I express myself. Yet in spite of all 
my circumspection I must not ignore the fact that 
every one, or practically every one who enters the 
magic circle, admits without further ado that he has 
become witness to something wonderful, something 
emotionally moving.” 

Fleming became silent and looked with blinking eyes 
at Faber, who was sitting at the opposite side of the 
table and drumming nervously on its surface. “Con- 
cede that as a stranger I may be permitted to be 
sceptical,” he said with an expression of coldness and 
aversion. “What do I actually know about you? 
Hardly more than you know about me, and that is 
mighty little. I have not yet met any one who was a 
man so built that I might cherish hope for myself or 
for you or for the whole species. As for what hits 
us in the eye, it reminds me of the action of a search: 
light; look at such an instrument close at hand and 
it becomes a miserable glowing stump in front of a 
concave mirror and we are chagrined because we let 
it blind us. Admit it, you may well admit it.” | 

Fleming shook his head reproachfully. “There is 
no occasion to speak about searchlights,” he said. 
“Everything is very clear. What happens is common- 
place and self-evident. How it is done is another 
matter. I don’t know whether you are accurately in- 
formed. It happens to be a Children’s City. Chil- 


68 FABER 


dren between five and fourteen years old. Fatherless, 
motherless, father- and mother-less; deserted by par- 
ents; abused by parents and governors; sent out upon 
the streets and injured by neglect; caught up by the 
police; begging, half starved, and already initiated into 
crime; no phase is lacking. I won’t speak of the ar- 
rangements; I know that Martina has described them 
to you in detail. And probably also the special service 
of information, in which she took part during the first 
days. Day after day and night after night tested, 
tried men, women, and young people wander through 
the haunts of misery, collect information in buildings 
and homes, serve at the public offices, at the railway 
stations, and in the streets. Thus likewise in a num- 
ber of cities. Superfluous to tell you about this 
labyrinth of horror; whoever lives bears part of the 
load. To come back to the Princess, I must state that 
her physical make-up is the most delicate possible, her 
accomplishment, on the other hand, of such a char- 
acter that no one knows how she is able to dispatch 
the work. So much for Number One. Number Two 
—and for this I can bring the support of a whole line 
of persons—a most unusual magic radiates from her, 
of a sort that even I, Jacob Fleming, who sit here and 
am unable to give an account of it, could not avoid. 
That cannot happen often in a lifetime.” 

He stopped and drew his hand across his forehead. 


FABER 69 


“Did I get into forbidden channels again?” he asked 
with friendly anxiety. “What the devil, dear fellow!” 
he exploded suddenly. “Why make a face like an 
examining lawyer? Am [I to blame because the woman 
is something singular? Yes, something most singular, 
something extraordinary, perhaps something great.” 

“We cannot permit ourselves to speak of greatness 
here,’ said Faber, with pained and bitter expression. 
“In this manner it is not permitted. You bestow 
honours rather quickly. Show me the great man so 
that I may bow down before him, but show him to me 
so that I will not have to view him through the spec- 
tacles of false enthusiasm, or as Charitas posing in 
the limelight. Produce him, produce him! I know 
none; I see none; I see merely the puny, the stupid, the 
wicked. I see nothing of greatness; I trace nothing 
of greatness; I only know force and theft. Yes, force 
and theft are being committed here, are being com- 
mitted against me!” 

He yelled the last words and jumped up. Fleming 
gazed at him in consternation and arose likewise in 
order to appease him; in attitude he was the personi- 
fication of terrified questions. But Faber was him- 
self horrified. For a second he closed his eyes, then 
placed his arm about Fleming’s shoulder and said 
hastily: “Nothing. Pardon. I am _ unaccountable. 
I’ve got a damned muddled brain. You must have 


70 FABER 


forbearance. Sit down, my dear fellow. Tell me 
more. Tell me more about the woman. True, you 
also find there’s magic in it? Now see, that interests 
me and nothing else. So tell me: What constitutes 
the magic?” 

“I am surprised,’ Fleming replied with hesitation; 
“T am greatly surprised that you did not seek this of 
Martina, or will not seek it of her. I wanted to say 
that before. Martina is no doubt best qualified for 
that. For many hours of the day she is in the im- 
mediate presence of the Princess. None is given such 
preference. For this reason she is envied by every 
one. No one can give you a better explanation. Why 
don’t you ask her?” 

“I will explain that to you,’ said Faber with a 
faint-hearted look, “but not now. Another time. 
Don’t put me off any longer, Fleming, I beg of you: 
What constitutes the magic?” 

“What constitutes the magic?” reiterated Fleming, . 
and wrinkled his forehead in distress. “That is dif- 
ficult to describe. How shall one describe that—the 
magic influence that a person wields? If you would 
let me think it over for two, three hours, so that I 
might make note of a number of circumstances, I 
might possibly hit on something acceptable, that will 
stand scrutiny. I will try it, for your sake; I will 
make the effort. Think of a pair of eyes, quiet, large, 


FABER 71 


serious eyes, as in a newborn child. You know, new- 
born children have such a primitive look. Well, im- 
agine this look. When this glance strikes you, you 
get the feeling that you are being awakened from 
sleep. You imagine that you have overslept, are being 
awakened, and feel dreadfully ashamed. Furthermore, 
think of a sort of naturalness that makes you feel 
somewhat ticklish. You are so surprised that you feel 
ticklish. Have you ever made this discovery? Now 
and then you meet a man so natural that you feel as 
if you had been shown the solution of a difficult prob- 
lem in chess over which you had pondered stupidly 
for weeks. To think you were so dense, and the 
solution so simple! Added to that imagine a smile— 
but how shall I describe a smile? That is wholly im- 
possible—a delicate and confiding smile it is, timorous, 
as if to say, ‘Pardon me for living,’ and behind that, 
behind the smile glows a calm, deep power—a calm, 
deep spiritual power.” 

‘With little shuffling steps he paced the room, re- 
turned, sat down again, and continued in a helpless 
manner: “But I am already at the end. Does all that 
make you any the wiser? MHardly. I could take 
another tack; could describe all sorts of little scenes 
to you. Picture to yourself: ten thousand children! 
Much happens there to create talk. There fate spins 
her skein, there passions are in tumult, there the world 


72 FABER 


forces an entrance and unloads its evil, its ignorance 
and corruption. Take merely an example. Here 
comes a filthy drunkard who wants his little daughter 
back; he needs the child; it must cook; the mother lies 
in the hospital and so on; all lies. In reality he beats 
the little one unmercifully when she does not bring 
home enough money from begging trips. The wild 
fellow must be tamed; he smashes some window panes, 
flourishes a knife, and demands the Princess—she is 
called that also by the people. He is led to the Prin- 
cess, for she has given orders that any one who de- 
mands, no matter who, is to have access to her. The 
fellow reels in—I happened to be present by chance— 
he yells, curses, jeers, wants the child. She listens to 
him; she lets him rave for a long time; then she ap- 
proaches him, puts a hand on his arm, talks with him 
very confidently and amiably, as with any one of us; 
the monster becomes dumb, becomes dumb and stares 
at her, at first in shamefaced wonder, then aggrieved 
and dispirited; stares and stares, turns about, reels 
out; outside he leans against the wall and begins to 
sob. Now, Eugene, you must see that in order to 
know how one person may prevail over another ; words 
and explanations are of no avail; you have to see it 
with your own eyes.” 

Faber was long silent. Finally he said with gloomy — 
obstinacy: “So be it. I will take it for truth and 


FABER 73 


actual fact. But that does not improve my situa- 
tion. On the contrary it makes it worse.” 

“Your situation?’ Fleming asked, astounded. “How 
your situation? What has that got to do with what 
the Princess is, or is not?” 

Faber bent over the table, clutched Fleming by the 
wrists and whispered with a raucous voice and a threat- 
ening look: “I suppose you can’t contain yourself any 
longer for curiosity? You smell secrets and would 
like to get me to talk, yes?” 

Fleming hid his displeasure. He shook his head 
and gazed compassionately at Faber. 

“But there are no secrets,’ muttered Faber, and the 
expression of his features became more and more hate- 
ful. “If you had eyes you would not need to sneak 
about like a cat around hot porridge. You people are 
not clairvoyant; you don’t touch what does not touch 
you and when no one calls you hear nothing.” 

_ He stared sadly down before him. Fleming sighed 
and made as if to take his leave, but not very earnestly. 
Faber held him back with a pleading look, which was 
sven more puzzling than his ill-natured attack. “You 
have asked me,” he began again, “why I want you, 
instead of Martina, to tell me what I want to know.” 
His voice suddenly had a gentler tone. “Did you think 
t was so simple? Martina did write me enough about 
he Princess. In the last two years I have received 





74 FABER 


twenty-two letters from Martina, and sixteen deal al 
most exclusively with the Princess. Martina is nc 
stylist; she often hits the nail on the head with he: 
remarks, but what she writes is born of the momen 
as the moment determines it. We were never really 
limited to the written word. Writing was always usec 
sparingly between us. Likewise certain aspects of the 
spoken word. I believe that like the peasants we man: 
aged to understand each other with three hundrec 
vocables.” 

“That is true, Eugene, that is certainly true, 


” criec 


Fleming, nodding energetically. “You lived togethe: 
so mute, you two, that I might say it was actually <¢ 
dumb show. It would seem to me that you neve! 
carried on elevated conversations, as they are called 
never engaged in comment about one another and Got 
and the world. You spoke only of actualities, mos 
modestly about facts and events. That is true; at tha 
time it did not occur to me; now that you mention it 
it is so true that it makes me laugh.” 

“You see,” replied Faber, thankful for this ac 
quiescence; “how could I come abruptly and star 
to cross-examine some one? I could ask casually 
What sort of compatriot is this person? What kim 
of clothes does she wear? What did she say yesterday 
when this and that happened? But hardly: What sor 
of human being is she? That would have been going 


FABER 75 


much too far. Martina would have looked curiously 
at me. I might as well ask: How do you feel toward 
ne? That would appear rather senseless to her: How 
lo you feel toward me? Do you understand at last, 
Fleming?” 


5 | 


“Yes, I understand you thoroughly,” said Fleming, 
vith an expression as if each of Faber’s words were a 
evelation to him. 

“She does not reflect on what sort of human being 


’ 


nybody is,” continued Faber in a strange, instructive 
one; “she has to experience that. When she has ex- 
jerienced it, she knows it, not as an idea, but as a pic- 
ure. But pictures cannot be communicated, as you 
‘ourself were compelled to admit a short time ago. 
Yow if I were to ask her to give me a picture, that is, 
0 put into words what lives inarticulate within her, I 
vould not only be making a brutal attack on her per- 
'onality, but the result would be that she would no 
onger see the picture and instead would give me all 
orts of useless fabrications.” 

 Fleming’s eyes became round as saucers behind the 
anses. Although he had asserted that he understood in 
‘etail, he seemed to have grasped only dimly what was 
aking place, and what moved this man to make these 
onfessions, which came obviously only by a great 
fort. “But you say that Martina wrote you a num- 
er of letters about the Princess,” he remarked timidly. 
| 


76 FABER 


Faber smiled as at a child’s question. ‘Martina’s 
letters are Martina’s letters—nothing more,” he re- 
marked dryly. ‘Facts, nothing but facts. Where she 
has been. Who has visited her. What has happened. 
What the Princess said, did, wished, planned. All this 
naturally with reference to me, at least so it seems, 
She takes for granted, and may well do so, that what 
she embraces and experiences so heartily will affect me 
in like manner. She forgets that I am counted out. 
She forgets it, and will not hear of it. She perceives 
it and lets the subject drop. But I knew that some- 
thing so close to me as the breath of my body had 
gone out of my life. Since I became aware of that 
I have not been able to breathe so freely as before, 
There is something torturing about it, something 
dreadfully torturing. A sick man gets a certain amount 
of peace when he learns the name of his illness. Man 
must be able to identify his illness, else he becomes 
morose or even worse. Some of those who returned 
home found themselves brutally deceived. They had 
been cheated, they had been robbed of their plighted 
loyalty; the wife had taken a lover, several lovers; 
had even married again, because she thought her hus- 
band dead; that is something tangible and one knows 
how to behave. The poor devil can break the furni- 
ture, can shoot, can cut somebody’s throat—but I? 


FABER 73 


What can I do? I don’t even know what is going on, 
nor whether I have the right to complain.” 

“Listen, Eugene, in the end those are mere figments 
of the brain,” Fleming said to him with cordiality. 
“Would not the simplest thing be for you to go to the 
Princess and talk with her? Then you would see how 
juickly these empty bubbles would burst.” 

- “T have nothing to say to the Princess,” said Faber, 
sruffly. “I have nothing to do with her. I have to do 
only with the shadow that she throws, which darkens 
averything that was once bright in my life.” 

_ Voices sounded; the door opened and Martina stood 
yn the threshold. Behind her stood Faith, holding a 
great bouquet of roses that Martina had brought. 
Snowing that she had the roses made Martina’s face 
‚ven more radiant than usual. 

_ She was amused when she saw the two men con- 
‘ronting one another in earnest attitudes. Her anima- 
ion led her to break forth into ringing laughter, into 
which came a note of embarrassment when she observed 
he pictures that had been placed against the wall, that 
if the Princess and her own. 


VII 


It was twilight; Faber was holding the boy on his la 
and telling stories. The eager eyes loosened a tongu 
that had been under a ban of silence for years. Chris 
topher hardly dared close his eyes, lest he should mis 
something if he did not keep his glance riveted withou 
a break on the mouth of the story-teller. 

Faber did not touch on the unedifying monotony 0 
prison life; nature provided enough material to sat 
isfy a taste for the horrible and the fantastic. T 
hear about wolves that roamed the unending plain 
of snow in murderous droves was a fairy tale. The 
powerful streams, green under their ice; villages burie 
in the earth, their site marked only by a few piles o 
the plain; forests, with fastnesses that no hunter dare 
penetrate, and that stretched hundreds of miles up t 
the polar sea. When the snow melts all the land! 
flooded; one has to move about in a boat for week 
before finding a landing. Blue-grey lies the water, th 
wild geese travel north, herons dart down and tak 
their food out of the flood. The nights are ofte 
beautiful as they stretch out toward infinity, with stat 





embroidered so closely together and the Milky Wa 
like a silver carpet: from out of the distance comes 
78 


FABER 29 


nelancholy song: a bird of the night careens in the 
ir. There the traveller wanders gladly, if he can, if 
eisfree..... 

But Christopher wants to hear adventures. He has 
een told about his father’s flight; he wants to hear of 
i from himself. A boy has to make use of his oppor- 
nities when he possesses a father who has experienced 
hrilling events and who has not acquitted himself 
adly. But this is no longer easy for Faber. Yet, he 
ties it, and it sounds well to Christopher—the tale of 
fe secret conspiracy and the bribes, of how a China- 
ian was bought in order to procure clothing; the hor- 
ible and pleasant waiting for the hour of the night 
iat had been agreed on; the highly exciting flight in 
ae darkness, crawling on all fours, wading through 
‘wamps, hiding in the underbrush at the slightest noise, 
bliterating all tracks at approach of day and lying ina 
tied-up water hole covered with sand and brush until 
ightfall—all this is amazing enough to make the lis- 
ner want to shout, and there is an added tang in 





nowing that others who attempted to escape earlier 
vere followed with dogs, dragged back and shot. 





Faber, fallen under the spell of reminiscence, paints 
range landscapes as if in a dream, with senses sharp- 
aed a thousandfold by his loneliness. In the mean- 
ime Faith has entered the room, has seated herself 
(aietly at the window and is listening. Faber’s voice 


OO eee 


80 FABER 


undergoes an imperceptible change, as if a certain in 
fluence has been exerted on him, which nevertheles: 
he does not wish to throw off. So he continues, dream 
ily recreating Asia’s measureless wastes in half-audibl 
words, so that Christopher has to listen keenly in orde: 
not to lose a syllable. The untrodden grass wildernes: 
and the fear of meeting nomadic hordes; the pathles: 
mountains, rising sheer and yellow; the need for avoid 
ing the road of the caravans; the robber bands that in 
fest the cliffs; the sparse settlements guarded by fero 
cious dogs who tear to pieces any one who approaches 
how the fugitive was directed to a merchant in th 
village, who is to become the guide; how soldiers ar 
searching the neighbourhood for fugitives, and he 1: 
hidden for nine days in a damp cellar inhabited by rats 
One night he is again on his way; the land stretche, 
wide and mysterious before him; all colours strik 
terror and all forms seem out of the world of imagina 
tion. After a march of many hours he comes to i 
temple lighted with paper lanterns; the earth seems t 
heave marvellously in the purple darkness; it looks lik 
a sea that is moved by the wind, but turns out to bi 
human bodies, the praying and the penitent, all lyin 
stretched out, so far as the eye can reach. When thi 
morning dawns three enormous figures come down th 
hill: are they increased to such horrifying size by th 
pale half-light, or are they actually giants? They seen 


FABER 81 


like coloured clouds and wear embroidered garments; 
their faces appear cruel, with their listless eyes of jet, 
and they march as if blind. Who may they be? And 
another day the fugitive arrives at a city where the 
houses cling to a cliff three thousand feet high; the 
streets are like ladders; unspeakable commotion goes 
on in them; boats without number lie on the stream 
below; on one of them stands an unchained lion; on 
another lie shackled slaves like bundles of bananas. 
Faber wears a Chinese dress; he follows his leader up 
‘the streets of steps through the swarming of children 
and animals and shops and carts. Suddenly a man 
dashes toward him with a drawn sword, no doubt one 
who has recognized the stranger despite his disguise, 
but a white-bearded old man comes by and raises his 
arm with a commanding air; he beckons the stranger 
‚to follow him, and they pass into an unusually beau- 
‚tiful house, where he feeds and cares for the tired 
guest, providing solicitously for his needs, healing his 
wounded feet, silently, gently, and in friendly fashion. 
| Then comes a trip of many days down the great stream 
in a bark, down to the sea, and in the great city on 
the sea, the most magical of all cities, the fugitive waits 
‚month after month and thinks of his native land, and 
‚of Christopher. 
_ Suddenly he arose, put down the child, and left the 
‚room. Christopher looked regretfully after him. He 


82 FABER 


went to Faith at the window, where it was still light; 
the room was dark. In his big grey eyes she saw 
pride, apprehension, and unrest. With a distracted and 
aimless gesture she ran her hand over his hair and 
while turning up the light she sighed softly. Soon 
Christopher was busily engaged in making an automo- 
bile out of chairs placed together, and using an old 
rubber ball as a horn, he made ugly alarm signals. A 
little later the vehicle became transformed; it turned 
into a Chinese river boat carrying shackled warriors, 
and when Faith arrived with supper and reminded him 
that it was time for bed, she found him sitting on 
board deep in thought. With a furrowed brow he 
asked her: “Do you think father is glad to be back 
with us? When a man has had such wonderful experi- 
ences he can hardly be satisfied at home.” 

“Yes, he can,” replied Faith. ‘Those wonderful ex- 
periences often sound a great deal more remarkable 
than they actually are. I am certain that he is glad 
to be here.” 

“Tf he goes away again he will have to take me with 
him,” said Christopher, determined. “He can always 
use a squire. I merely have to find out whether he 
thinks I am strong enough. Then we can overthrow 
all the Chinese.” 

“Yes, you ought to do that,” added Faith. “No 
doubt they are real dangerous people.” | 


FABER 83 


“Not all, but most of them, don’t you think?” 

“Naturally not all; so far as I know there are pious 
and wise men among the Chinese.” 

“And some a thousand years old?” 

“Yes, even a thousand years old.” 

“Don’t you think that father often looks as if he 
were a thousand years old?” 

“How so? I did not find him so.” 

“T can’t explain it. He seems that way, so old, so 
very old. Does he please you?” 
“Oh, yes, I am well pleased with him.” 
- “Would you like to become his slave ?”’ 
“Slave? But we don’t have slaves.” 
“Here, no, but if you went to China you could be- 
‘come his slave. I would be the squire and you the 
‘slave. Lovely, what?” 





_ “And your mother? What would become of her?” 
| “Tl have to think it over. Perhaps she will follow 
‘us, when she sees that we are in earnest.” 

_ “What do you mean by that: ‘we are in earnest’ ?” 
_ The lad was silent, glanced up slyly at Faith, and 
shrugged his shoulders. Faith closed the conversation 
with a glance at the big clock and Christopher had to 


capitulate to the hour. 





VIII 


FABER paced back and forth in his bedroom, picked up 
a book, put it down, and again paced back and forth. 
He opened the door leading to the hall and listened, 
then opened the window and looked down on the streets 
in the dusk. The row of trees opposite rustled in the 
rain; the distant whistle of a locomotive drifted up on 
the damp air. As if he had made a daring decision 
he quickly left his place at the window, crossed the 
living-room and hall and entered Martina’s bedroom. 
Here he turned on the light and looked about him. 
He knew all the objects in the room, but it seemed 
that he had forgotten them in his long absence and 
now wanted to compare the reality with his remem- 
brance. In a large oval frame over the bed hung the 
photograph of Martina’s father; an earnest, almost ill- 
tempered looking man with a white moustache that 
gave his face something of a distinguished expression. 
On the lower part of the picture he had written in a 
large hand these lines out of the Metamorphoses of 
Ovid: Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati. 
Faber had once taken exception to it, finding it rather 
too harsh to be placed over the shrine of lovers. 


The blue silk dress that she had worn the day before. 
84 


FABER 85 


lay on an armchair covered with blue cretonne. He 
ran the tips of his fingers over it and bent down a bit 
to sniff the odour that must have come from her person. 
A pair of white leather boots stood halfway under the 
bed ; one was buttoned, the other not—this dissimilarity 
amazed him. He walked to the dressing table and sized 
up the objects that lay on the glass plate; the powder 
box with its enamel design; the oblong manicure box 
of tortoise shell; the hand mirror set in ivory with the 
artistically chiselled handle; the perfume bottles on their 
silver trays; in a silk pillow stuck the gem with Mar- 
tina’s head in profile, made by a young Roman friend 
nine years ago—and now he was dead. 

Everything was familiar to him; there was nothing 
new there; he looked everything over carefully. Then 
he again looked about him in the room and made a 
gesture as if warding off an unwelcome thought. Just 
‘then the door opened and Faith entered. It was her 
duty to clean the room. She stood motionless with 
‘surprise. “I was looking for something,” murmured 
‘Faber, awkward in a lie, and passed her with evident 
hostility. “T thought you had gone out,” said Faith. 
‚He shook his head and replied that he intended to wait 
for Martina. Martina would be home late, replied 
Faith, as she drew the curtains; did he not wish to 
‘dine? Just then they heard a key in the main door 
‘and Martina’s voice. Faber remained standing in the 
| 


| 


| 
| 


| 


86 FABER 


corridor behind the curtain which closed off the living- 
rooms. It was dark here: he again found himself in 
the position of a thief caught in the act. 

A young man and woman had come with Martina. 
The young man turned over to Faith a portfolio filled 
with writings, which he had been carrying; to the 
woman, who looked like a corpse, Martina gave a docu- 
ment which she procured from her desk in the living- 
room. When both had left she called a number on 
the telephone and merely spoke the words: “The inci- 
dent is closed.” Faith helped her with her mantle; 
Martina grasped Faith’s hand and whispered to her in 
an excited fashion. Although her voice was low 
Faber heard what she said. “Most horribly beaten. 
Beaten until bruised. Nine poor offspring. You can't 
picture it in your'wildest dreams. A real den of thieves, 
The Princess is completely broken. What did you say? 
Yes, they are safe now. The beast is in custody. Nat- 
urally a cripple factory, exploiting sympathy. What 
a night, Faith, unthinkable, terrible!’ The whispers 
became more subdued; finally Faber heard the ques- 
tion: “Is Eugene in?” 

He just had time to walk into the living-room be- 
fore Martina saw him. She entered and greeted him 
contentedly. Her manner was changed so much that 
he was shocked; she was transformed into a cheerful 
person. What he had caught and observed of her when 


FABER 87 


‘he was in the corridor was the opposite of what she 





‘showed now. Perhaps another side of her nature, 
which had been imprisoned, had been released. He was 
not able to explain it. He seemed to feel a discontent 
deep down in his heart while she pretended to scold 
him because he had not yet dined. She said that she 
had dined two hours ago. In order to divert blame 
from Faith Eugene declared that he had intended to 
go out, but had decided not to, on account of the rain. 
‘Martina and Faith conferred about what should be 
prepared for him, and Faith proposed eggs with fresh 





green lettuce. In the event Herr Faber agreed, she 
added, giving him a peculiarly warning look, which 
‘Faber did not understand. Martina thought it amus- 
ing that she called him Herr Faber; she looked almost 
‘anxiously at this distinguished gentleman and laughed 
loudly. She had to admit that he could be treated 
formally so far as Faith was concerned. She would 
join him at the lettuce, she said, but it would have to 
be sweetened: she craved sweets that were sour and 





sour things that were sweet. 
And she laughed. 

When Faith had gone she related that she had been 
asked about Eugene by a number of persons. The 
Princess sent her greetings. He thereupon reported 
how he had passed the afternoon with Christopher and 
while he spoke she seemed to become more and more 


88 FABER 


care-free. Faith came with the dishes prepared. Mar- 
tina complained that the rain had given her damp feet, 
and Eugene knelt down to unlace her shoes. With 
confidence she presented one foot and the other and 
Faith brought the leather slippers. While they were 
both at table she thought of a new complaint and 
laughed at her troubles; her hair felt very heavy and 
she still had work to do; would Eugene allow her to 
let down her hair? The weight of it had tired her a 
great deal recently. She pulled the pins out of her hair; 
the brown deluge fell rustling upon her shoulders. 
While he ate without a word she chose lettuce leaves 
out of the salad dish and amused herself at her bad 
manners, as she called them. Eugene asked what work 
she meant to do so late in the evening; she replied that 
she had to prepare a report, the items of which she had 
discussed with the Princess and which she dared not 
forget. 

“I am going to try to get myself a position, 


99 


said 
Eugene. | 

Martina observed that he did not need to hurry, for 
rest could not harm him. 

“What rest do I need?” he replied. “Six years lie 
behind me like a black holocaust. If I do not wipe them 
out now I will never get rid of them. I have to 
obliterate them.” 

“Naturally you must get rid of them,” said Martina 


’ 


FABER 89 


gently. “But do not force yourself. I will help you. 
Ihave already made my plans.” 

“You? What plans?” His glance travelled from 

the open window where it had lingered to her animated 
features. Martina smiled—her smile was a very dif- 
ferent expression of vitality from her laughter, much 
‘more sincere—bent forward, touched the tip of his chin 
| with her index finger, and asked: “Now then, Master 
‘Gloom, why so gloomy?” 
_ He was silent. She rose, kissed him on the fore- 
head, and went to her desk. Before she sat down she 
‘spoke, facing the wall as if from modesty: “It’s good to 
have you back again, Eugene.” 

“Ts it really?” he exclaimed in a choking voice in 
which a hope strove for utterance. 

“Yes, Eugene, so good—oh, so good!’ she cried, 
emphasizing the little word fervently. 

Then she laughed, this unusual laughter of shyness, 
of defence against admissions or questions. She began 
to write and asked him to be patient for an hour, but 
he arose and went out, and, taking down hat and cloak, 
said in desperation to himself: “Who can understand 
that, who can understand that? ...” On the street 
he was glad to have the rain in his face. He rushed 
aimlessly forward, at times muttering disconnected 
sentences, and after wandering about for half an hour 
found himself in front of a café that he had fre- 


90 FABER 


quented in former years, and so he entered. The room 
was full of people, but he knew not one of them. For- 
merly he had often sat here with friends, or rather with 
sympathetic acquaintances, with whom he had profes- 
sional interests in common, for he had possessed no 
friends, at least no real friend since Martina had en- 
tered his life. He looked eagerly about him to see 
whether one of these comrades was present. His fea- 
tures expressed a passionate wish to speak with some- 
body, especially in the present hour, but there was no 
one that he knew, and it seemed that the city had 
produced entirely new people while he was away. So. 
he left again, loitered around in the rain, wandered to 
Fleming’s house, turned about, and reached home at 
one o’clock. Martina was still sitting at her desk, pale, 
tired, suffering; with lines of worry on her forehead 
and a deep, sparkling look. She hardly glanced up, 
indeed did not seem to have noticed that he had been 
out. 

He looked at her for a while; finally she laid aside 
her pen. Then he said: “I don’t know what to make 
of you, Martina.” 

She raised her head in surprise. Then she shook 
her head a little, coloured a trifle, but said nothing. 
He closed the window, for the night was beginning to 
get cool. He carried a chair to the stove, where he 


| FABER 91 


‘could sit behind her, and leaned his forehead against 
the tiles. Silence filled the room and the house. 

_ Martina turned about and observed him sitting 
against the stove and said cheerfully: “Why are you 
| hesitating ?” 

Eugene, rising suddenly, asked in a tense voice: 
“Are you still my wife, Martina?” 
| When Martina saw his pale and distorted face she 
approached him and gazed in growing astonishment, 
her eyes gleaming darkly in the shadow. But there 
was not only amazement in her eyes, but also anxiety 
which was born a long time ago and had been latent 
and now seemed to have been awakened by a mental 
shock. “I don’t understand what you are asking,” she 
“murmured with bowed head. 

“Then we probably don’t understand each other,” 
he replied, “or rather you no longer know anything 
‚about you and me.” 

_ She raised her hands pleadingly. Every finger 
“begged him to desist. But he continued obstinately 
and passionately: “I feel as if I am in a dark cellar, 
Martina, and I don’t know where the stairs are or 
where the window is. I grope and grope, but touch 
nothing but the dead wall. Don’t you understand? 
' You say it is good to have me back. No one who 
knows you could disbelieve you, least of all myself. 


92 FABER 


But what is the good of it, tell me, if I have lost you? 
Don’t you understand now?” | 

“Lost me, Eugene?” she stammered, shaken. “How 
can you speak so to me?” She threw her arms about 
him imploringly. His coldness disheartened her. She 
seized this word “lost” and spoke some confused words 
that had no tangible meaning. Indecision and con- 
fusion were pictured on her pretty face, besides the 
last flicker of a timorous smile. He recognizéd that 
there was no course to pursue except to cross-examine 
as a judge would, this dumb soul, buried and hidden 
away far below the surface; that he must put question 
after question, draw out one syllable after another, 
merely to find common ground for himself and her and 
a path to take. 

Had she been glad of his coming? 

She answered with a look of reproach. 

Had a little fear entered into her joy, any sort of 
fear? 

She nodded—anxiously, trembling, shy wonder at 
such a faculty for divination. 

But what? What had she feared? 

She did not know. 

Was it likely that her service, her tasks out yonder, 
the person of the Princess, the demands from that 
quarter, had so filled her up that they had displaced 
all other thoughts and feelings? | 


FABER 93 


Filled her up, yes; through and through; completely. 
‘But she had always thought of him, she had always 
concerned herself about him unchangeably. 

Then what in God’s name did she fear? 

She did not know. 

_ He fell into dark reflection. Then he began again, 
‘even more penetratingly. Had it been her object at 
‘any one time to deny him love? 

She had never had such a thought. 

Had any other person ever tried, openly or secretly, 
to get her to do so? 

“Who would have been so foolish?” was her reply. 

He wanted her to reflect; there were so many ways 
in which an outside influence could act on a nature that 
had become undecided or perturbed or confused. 
She shook her head. 
| He would ask something else, not did she mean to 
deny him her love, but did she mean to deny him her 
‘body: had this been her will and her wish? 

Again pained amazement on Martina’s part. Did 
she deny him the least of anything? Did it seem so 
to him? If so he did her a grave injury. Never did 
she deny him anything, even herself. Deny him—no, 
surely not. She became silent in fear. 

_ “What then, Martina? What then, if not denying?” 

She was silent. Silent, and the riddle became more 


and more difficult to penetrate. 


| 
| 


IX 


In the next few days Faber was pre-empted by his 
family, that is to say chiefly by his mother, who en- 
forced her prerogatives ruthlessly. She simply came 
for him, and when Christopher was at home took him 
along without giving heed to Faith’s protests. She 
sent word to Martina to follow, but Martina did not 
appear, and it became difficult for Anna to disguise 
her bitterness. 

Alert and active as she was, she had already provided 
a position for Eugene. She had a wide acquaintance 
among persons of influence; her persistence never 
weakened before opposition, and many people favoured 
her solely because her name was associated with mem- 
ories of fighting and resistance. Thus she had suc- 
ceeded in obtaining for Faber a fairly well paid posi- 
tion as inspector at the work of rehabilitating neglected 
public buildings. He was to take up his task in Sep- 
tember. | 

Martina considered this no disadvantage for the 
plan she had hinted at and which she now disclosed 
to him; she cherished the fervent hope that he would 
act as architect for the proposed buildings in the Chil- 
dren’s City. Eventually it would be not solely a ques- 

94 


FABER 95 


tion of temporary barracks but permanent houses in a 
style conforming to their uses. Faber said neither yes 
nor no; he remained cold and silent, while Martina 
eagerly explained the advantages and possibilities to 
him. 

_ As a matter of fact he did not seem pleased when 
any one became actively interested in his behalf and in 
his future. Even when his mother, beaming with joy, 
told him of the success of her efforts, he thanked her 
but half-heartedly. Anna did not think ill of him for 
this, although her son-in-law Hergesell, who was pres- . 
ent by chance, made a wry face and regarded his 
brother-in-law with cold disdain. Faber’s glance in 
reply held no good will; the two had not yet reached 
the stage of intimacy that Anna took as a matter of 
course and had often urged, to Clara’s ironical amuse- 
ment. 

_ Hergesell, who was but a little over thirty, was a 
historian of art and belonged to an exclusive circle 
of professors and young scholars who had become de- 
flected from the paths of learning and the work of 
peace. » They had set as their task the revivifying of a 
patriotic spirit and were now engaged in a passionate 
fight against the prevailing forms of government. 
‘They were as little deterred in their clandestine and 
refined manner from making use of hatred and incite- 
ment as were the tribunes of the people in their dirty 


» 


96 FABER 


and coarse way. The influence that they exerted wa 
almost irresistible among the youth, and without ques 
tion corrupting, for they reduced great figures anc 
noble ideals to the level of abettors and accomplices it 
their political plans and utopias and knew how to giv 
the appearance of definite accomplishment in their pro 
nouncements, which were built up on art and legend 
philosophy and history. Hergesell had an unrespon 
sive nature and had absorbed and pondered a. grea 
deal, which spared him the task of learning by observa 
tion and experience. Before entering this circle ly 
possessed the pleasing charm of a blond, blue-eyet 
youth, which remained with him up to his twentietl 
year, as well as a clean and well ordered mind, thr 
product of excellent breeding and care-free circum 
stances ; but slowly, and as if under inexorable pressure 
he had become hardened, narrowed, and ossified. He 
regarded Eugene Faber as his opponent from the firs 
moment; before they had exchanged a word he adoptec 
the attitude of the patrician against the plebeian, the 
established and magnanimous man against the man wh¢ 
comes from the outside and makes demands—demands 
of whatever nature, one knows not what—and wh¢ 
forces himself and his dark and probably destructive 
forces on a docile community. And so matters stood 
although neither word nor conduct gave any inkling 
of it. 


FABER | 97 


Faber had not expected to find his sister extremely 
happy in the married state, but what he observed never- 
theless disappointed him. Everything in the house gave 
the impression of solid affluence, and from his attitude 
of constant observation one gathered that out of this 
re drew certain conclusions that made him sad and 
yerhaps even sympathetic. Clara might have felt this, 
yut she was far from willing to start a discussion with 
ı man who so clearly expected an explanation or a de- 
‘ence. On the contrary, the sarcasm with which she 
reated Eugene was even more biting than that which . 
he ordinarily employed toward human beings. 

One evening they were alone and the conversation 
lrifted to her early youth. Eugene reminded Clara of 
he foolish pranks she had engaged in: how she had 
mce walked to Venice like a journeyman with a pack 
m her back; how one moonlight night she had 
lunged, fully attired, into the pond of the palace in 
der to pick water lilies and how, wet to the skin and 
vith the yellow flowers in her dripping hair, she had 
aarched through the streets at the head of her friends, 
inging songs; and how, when still a child, she had 
hown her fighting spirit by taking the part of a Jewish 
id who was being persecuted by a wild horde with 
tones. “You laid about you with your fists and your 


ace was covered with blood when you returned home— 


| 


© you remember ?” 


98 FABER 


She recalled it. With her look becoming darkh 
defiant she glanced down and said ironically: “Yor 
are trying to tell me that the Clara of that time hac 
a great idea of herself, are you not? You mean he 
demands on people were inexorable and, no matter hoy 
foolish she acted, none dared approach her too near 
You mean to tell me that she was not there to be way 
laid, even if she played the role of the vagabond ?” 

He stared silently before him without answering. 

Clara continued with challenging mockery in he 
manner: “You move about like one who finds some 
thing rotten in the state of Denmark. Clearly some 
thing is rotten, my dear fellow. But what are yot 
going to do about it? Are you going to come here & 
a rebel? On your face there is always written: ‘Yor 
don’t please me any longer, you are thoroughly antt 
pathetic tome.’ I can understand that. Only ask your. 
self how we are to remedy things. In spite of thai 
we are making an effort to cover the worst of ow 
shame. For instance, there is our nephew Valentine 
You don’t know a thing about him yet. You merely 
have to mention his name and mother begins t 
tremble.” ' 
“What is wrong with him?” inquired Eugene. 4, 

“Spoiled,” said Clara, contemptuously. “You re 
member that he was the apple of mother’s eye. So he 
became spoiled. Mother told him so often that a bort 





FABER 9 


Faber is not an ordinary mortal, especially when he 
has the good fortune of being illegitimate, that the 
young man naturally trimmed his sails accordingly. 
We were all out of the ordinary—you and me, Rod- 
erick, Karl—have you already forgotten that? All 





models with special privileges, but never able to prove 
our title so well as he. Moreover, we were bred and 
intended to be two-legged exhibits, who should show 
the citizen-swine how retrogressive they are with their 
morality, their catechism, and so forth. Do you find 
that we have done anything with our gifts, my dear 
brother ?” 


Eugene was silent. 





“And coming back to the aforementioned spoiled 
child, we were and are by contrast pure little angels 
who exist for God’s pleasure. How much easier it 





was for parents in ancient times! When such a child 
turned out wrong they put him outside the door with 


1 powerful curse and declared him dead. To-day we 
‘ight for his soul, even when there is as little soul ob- 


servable as in a herring. This promising young man, 


ifteen summers old, passes his nights in champagne 





vars, partly as dancer—you can imagine what sort of 
lances he does—partly as barkeeper. You must know 
that heaps of money can now be earned in that way. 
He lived with us up to a month ago; mother and I 


sheltered him and actually succeeded so well that Her- 


100 FABER 


mann learned nothing of his lascivious life. But when 
he came home one morning recently in a cocaine stupor 
my husband ejected him. Where he has lived since, 
we don’t know. From time to time bad eggs come here 
to ask for him, also a certain sort of women, or a 
tailor with an unpaid bill. Mother is torn by despera- 
tion and worry, although she tries to hide it from us, 
and I suspect her of using her spare time in attempts 
to locate his lodging. She still believes in him. Deep 
in her heart she is convinced that this monstrosity is a 
Prince Henry who plays his jolly pranks with all sorts 
of Falstaffs and Pistols until his coronation. Mother 
accepts from life only what she is disposed to take, 
She is to be envied.” 

“You are severe, Clara,” said Eugene. 

“Thank God! Were I soft I should long ago have 
been ground to powder,” was the brusque answer. “It 
was always my fate to collide with people; for that ] 
need a hard crust.” She arose, walked to the window, 
and spoke without turning. “I misused my youth 
badly, that’s the reason. I pushed my horizon out toc 
far. Suddenly I became dizzy. When you become 
dizzy you clutch at something for support. You don't 
have time to reflect when you get dizzy. Let us close 
the subject. Leave me in peace.” 

Several times when Faber was leaving his sister’s 
house he met a Jesuit priest on the stairs, a man of 


FABER IOI 


middle age whose calm and discreet face impressed 
him. Once Clara was just accompanying him into the 
anteroom when the priest arrived; Clara introduced 
them to one another. “Father Desiderio, this is my 
brother,’ she said, and her voice suddenly sounded 
tired and subdued. Eugene’s inquiring glance passed 
from sister to priest; each had the suspicion of a 
smile. 

In the course of a week he visited his mother and 
sister almost every day, although his attitude betrayed 
that he did not feel himself at home or at ease in any 
way, especially not when Hergesell was present. The 
latter marked this and one evening after dinner he 
complained to Anna and his wife in a haughty tone 
about it; he said he was not accustomed to have some 

‚one come to his house to find him onerous. 

_ Clara replied, shrugging her shoulders: “Neither is 
_he drawn to me or to mother. The urge he feels drives 
him away from his home. He would like to get away 
‚ {rom himself best of all.” 

“That may be so,” Hergesell agreed; “his is an exist- 
‘ence torn up by the roots. Where does he belong? 
He does not know. Where is his innate sense of duty? 
‚He has none. Our world is full of his sort of people 
just now, and most of them need only a slogan and 
‚they become—well, exactly what they happen to be.” 
| “Strange, how well you understand poor Eugene,” 


102 FABER 


said Clara with a clouded face, while Anna looked si- 
lently at her son-in-law. 

“We see it every day. Just look about you,” said 
Hergesell in his mild, almost boyish voice. “The un- 
productive spirit, the spirit of negation, that is the evil. 
Man wants to be free; he refuses to wear fetters—very 
good. But there are fetters which man himself has to 
adopt if he does not want to become a formless and 
soulless solitary living a life of chance outside the 
eternal laws and orders. I know people who merely 
smile when one speaks of national unity, of the Ger- 
man nation, perhaps, and the German idea, the same 
persons who are thrown into foolish ecstasy when they 
merely hear the word humanity. Humanity—that has 
become little by little the excuse for spiritual dissipa- 
tion, a tricky medium for all sorts of incendiarism and 
treason. Be not indignant, Clara, because I say so, 
and I beg mother’s pardon if I make bold to say so, 
for you Fabers have always had a fateful leaning to- 
ward—what shall I call it—toward an irresponsible 
community of interests, toward a democracy without 
real background or vision. I believe that this attitude 
is taking bitter revenge on Eugene. He does not stand. 
his ground. He is not a man who would. Heisa 
man who flees.” | 

“What trash!” Clara grumbled. She had lighted a 


taper in order to seal a letter. “Democracy? Trash. 
i 





| 
| 
| 
| 


| FABER 103 
“What is the object of your explanatory lecture? To 
shatter wholly the feeling we have for Faber? Do 
‚let us vegetate for a little longer, even if in our bad 
democratic fashion. We do not like commands. We 
do not like to be called to account. We do not have 
‘such strict convictions. We are not so thoroughly 
‚sure of ourselves—or of you. We are modest per- 
sons.” She extinguished the taper while Hergesell 
regarded her sidewise in astonishment. 

_ Anna Faber walked restlessly up and down. When 
 Hergesell had retired to his study she came to Clara 
‘with a face of pallor and said: “He is right on one 
‘point: Eugene is a man who flees. That came home 
to me because it happens to be true. What will come 
of it? Speak, Clara—you are clever, you see things as 
they are. Am I to lose this son likewise? Have I 
already lost him?” 

_ Clara toyed with the wax. Her lips were firmly 
pressed together. 

Anna grasped her hands so violently that the wax 
‘fell to the floor. “What is wrong with him?” she 
urged. “You know. What sort of misfortune threat- 
‘ens him? What must we do to avert it?” 

— “Don’t exaggerate so, Mother,” Clara replied in- 
voluntarily. “Those are such harsh words. Misfor- 
tune: I know of no misfortune. It seems that he and 
' Martina do not agree as they did formerly. . Some- 


104 FABER 


thing between them seems to have changed. Why not? 
We all have to leave the Garden of Eden some time, 
in this way or that. What do you mean by that: to 
lose your son? You no longer have a son when he is 
thirty years old and his life is entirely different from 
your own. If you speak of a misfortune I can think 
of only one: that you are unable to withdraw your hand 
from him. A mother must learn to remove her hand 
/ from her children.” 

Anna Faber regarded her daughter speechlessly. She 
shrank back, groped for a chair, let herself sink heavily 
down in it and whispered: “That sounds almost as if I 
had committed a crime against you children. . . .” 

Clara shrugged her shoulders. “That is much too 
strong,” she said in her deep voice, and took up the 


wax again. 


x 


In the meantime Eugene waited. And in waiting he 
assumed the attitude of the tired swimmer who de- 
pends on a powerful wave to carry him to shore. While 
fleeing from his home life he may have imagined that 
decisive circumstances were working a transformation 
there. But it was not certain that he had hopes in 
that direction. On the whole his personality had an 
oppressive and destructive effect. He made it plain 
that he resented every sort of scrutiny and every kind 
act done in his behalf. Whenever Faith asked his 
needs or wishes he gave short and ill-tempered replies. 
He made no attempt to hide the fact that her calm, 
penetrating glance made him as uncomfortable as did 
the worried, questioning look of his mother. Occa- 
sionally he appeared at Fleming’s, sat there awhile, be- 
gan a conversation of no consequence and then sud- 
denly decided to leave in a hurry. It even seemed to 
cost him an effort to occupy himself with Christopher ; 
there was entirely too much natural curiosity and re- 
proachful wonderment in the clear eyes of the child. 
It also irritated him that he must first turn to the 
vigilant Faith whenever he wanted the boy for a few 


hours to himself. One day when he was complaining 
105 


106 FABER 


ill-humouredly about this to Fleming and the latter was 
at a loss for an answer, Faber added, as a sort of in- 
voluntary explanation: “Tell me, where shall I go with 
him? Shall I go promenading? I can do that no 
longer. That is one of the strange things that happen 
to one in the Far East—you cannot go promenading 
any longer. You laugh? But is not this habit, which 
in Europe we call promenading, much more laughable? 
A man makes nature the object of his pleasure and 
conquers it by moving his legs in a hygienic manner.” 

“Well, now!” said Fleming thoughtfully. “What 
is the matter with you, my dear fellow? What are you 
doing? Do you really despise us so much as that? 
Do you despise everything—your mother’s love, your 
father’s achievement?” As Faber remained silent he 
added gently: “I am sorry for you, Eugene. You 
seem to me like some one whose thoughts and words 
and wishes and actions have been so dammed up that 
his head is almost bursting. Don’t hurt yourself, my 
good friend. Remember, a European is still some- 
thing beautiful and noble—when he happens to be one, 
nota bene. Do we not carry in our blood two thou- 
sand years of learning and art and many thousand years 
of aspiration? Aspiration is not Asiatic.” 

“That may be so,’ murmured Faber, and waved 
his hand as if he wanted to dismiss a picture from his 
sight. He arose, crossed the room, halted before Flem- 


FABER 107 


ing, and said, while his look wandered aimlessly : “Per- 
haps I am deceiving myself. Perhaps I have become 
some one else and only I alone do not know it. Per- 
haps she is no longer the same woman and every one 
knows it but me. One should be able to determine 
that. If only we could see ourselves for one second 
with the eyes of others! But as that is impossible we 
get everything wrong.” 

“T don’t understand what you are thinking of,” said 
Fleming. 


bd 


“It is unnecessary,’ “said Faber eruffly, and turned 


away. And, still looking away, he spoke: “Last night I 
had a dream. .. .” 

Fleming, who was looking up at him, noticed a 
shudder go down his back. “Tell me your dream,” he 
begged. 

But Eugene grasped his hat and departed. 

“No good can come of that,” said Fleming to him- 
self, and then, turning to his notes, he resumed his in- 
terrupted work with a sigh. 


That same evening Faber waited at the stopping 


point of the street car for Martina. For an hour and 





a half he paced back and forth between an advertising 
bulletin and a lamp-post, and nineteen cars passed down 
the lonely street before she finally arrived on the twen- 


_ tieth. She was surprised to see him, but she took him 
to task. She said that by waiting for her he gave her 


108 FABER 


no pleasure; it would embitter him against her and she 
herself would lose her freedom. 

“Freedom ?” he repeated softly, offering her his arm. 
“Ts that worth so much to you?” 

“Tt is everything,” she replied, without hesitation. 

He said that the streets of a city at night had some- 
thing terrible about them; the idea that she might be 
alone on the streets at night had been one of the most 
painful thoughts that had come to him these past years, 
tormenting him more than ideas of illness or actual 
danger. She laughed softly to herself and leaned her 
cheek lightly against his shoulder. “Foolish Eugene,” 
she said. “If only you knew what paths I have taken!” 

“So you see I knew it,” he replied. “One feels it, 
deep down inside. The fact that our outside senses do 
not know it is merely laxness on the part of our 
nerves.” 

Upon entering the room Martina spied most beau- 
tiful flowers, roses and orchids. He had chosen them 
carefully with a knowledge of her preferences and had 
tied them in bouquets with much taste. She was again 
surprised, and it seemed that her dejection because of 
his restlessness, his aimlessness and instability, which 
she had felt all these days, was forcing her to speak. 
She was not able to explain the transformation to her- 
self in any way and one could see in her face that 


FABER 109 


fear dominated her, no matter what direction her 
thoughts took. 

Faber on the other hand waited with a sort of hun- 
ger for the outburst of pleasure that he had been ac- 
customed to see when he brought her flowers. In those 
days it was always an occasion, the signal for a festival. 
And now? She touched a Malmaison rose with caress- 
ing fingers and held her head bowed down. She 
thanked him in a whisper. Was there about her some- 
thing of the expression of a debtor who is being pressed 
for payment and does not know in what coin to pay ?’— 
who is afraid to ask for a respite, although it is of 
great importance that such respite be given him? 

Eugene brooded over it, but did not comprehend. 

It turned out, however, that she was unusually tired 
this evening. She was scarcely able to hold herself 
upright and even conversation was difficult for her. 
She sank down in the fauteuil and asked him to pull 
down the hanging lamp so that the light would not 
blind her, and closed her eyes. He knelt down to re- 
‘move her shoes and she let him do so. He drew the 
pins out of her hair, released the coiffure and let the 
golden-brown flood fall carefully over the back of the 
chair. She permitted this and with eyes still closed ex- 
tended her thin, cool hand, to which he pressed his lips. 
He asked if she would not like a cup of tea. She 


110 FABER 


nodded. It was already late, past eleven o’clock, and 
Faith had gone to bed, so he went into the kitchen, 
placed water on the gas flame, searched for the tea 
container and prepared tea after the fashion he had 
learned in China. He carried the teapot into the room, 
gave Martina the filled cup and held the saucer while 
she drank in little sips, smiling and still keeping her 
eyes closed. 

Then he sat down near her and grasped her hand. 
“Just see how you are wearing yourself down,” he be- 
gan, and patted the back of her hand continuously. 
“Pretty soon nothing will be left of Martina. Your 
cheeks are sunken already; there are one, two, three 
lines of care on your forehead, and your lips, once so 
red, are nothing to brag of any longer.” 

“Then I must have become a sad-looking scarecrow,” 
said Martina, as if in sleep. 

“Tell me, Martina, how you would like to have me,” 
he continued, with the utmost flattery. “Speak freely. 
I will be guided by your words.” 

Martina turned her face toward him without open- 
ing her eyes. “Can any one be something else than he 
is?’ she asked, and her pale cheeks flushed with colour 
that fled as quickly as it came. “How do you think you 
were? How do you think you ought to become? Have 
I complained about you? After all, we are grown up. 
Each of us has his way to follow.” | 


\ 
FABER III 


“No, Martina, not that,” he interrupted, pleading. 
“T want to get beyond the misunderstanding of which 
neither of us knows what it is really about. To do that 
we have to find a point where the paths cross. Then 
we can either walk together or . . .” 

“Or?” she inquired tensely, and opened her eyes for 
the first time. 

“Or separately. Certainly in no case can we go on 
as we are doing now—meeting daily for a single in- 
stant where the paths cross, one tired to exhaustion, 
the other martyred by his thoughts. And when I say 
that I will become what you wish of me, no matter 
what price you ask, no matter what the sacrifice, then 
naturally I mean likewise that you will make a corre- 
sponding concession to me, a sacrifice—the price, in 
fact that I am worth to you.” 

Martina looked at him in amazement. Her eyes 
seemed to have something starlike about them, so far 
away they seemed, so scintillating in their tranquil- 
lity. Suddenly she shook her head vigorously and said 
in a colourless voice: “No. Don’t ask it. No. 
No,” 

Faber turned pale. But he kept her hand in his and 
continued to caress it. “And what if I serve you with 
all my power?” he continued. “What if the sound of 
_ your footstep becomes as welcome to me as the peal 


of bells on a feast day to a pious man? What if I am 
re 


112 FABER 


attentive and watchful as never man was attentive and 
watchful before? What if I honour you as a princess 
and reach out for your look and await your very 
breath as a leaf seeks out the light? What if I direct 
all my efforts to getting rich and doing everything to 
alleviate the suffering of human beings and to increase 
the happiness of children which you, in spite of all your 
effort and work are not able to do? Not even then? 
Stop, stop—don’t speak just yet. Let me add that these 
words cannot be repeated, no more than the hour in 
which they are spoken, no more than the urge which 
brings them forth now, but will not fashion them a 
second time. And also let me tell you that all these 
words have hurt the magic bond of our love, in which 
we lived so long, you and I, that we begin our rela- 
tions anew stained by a blemish that cannot be re-. 
moved. What have you to say in reply?” 

Martina raised her hands, took hold of both his 
shoulders, looked firmly into his eyes, and replied: “I 
cannot do it.” 

“And why not, Martina?’ came the question, dull 
and lifeless from his lips. 

“Why not? That I cannot tell you. If you don’t 
feel it now as you feel my arms and my breast, then I 
cannot tell you.” | 

He clutched her wrists and pressed them as in a vise. | 
“How do you mean that?” he muttered, troubled. 


FABER «113 


“Oh, God!” she sighed. Her head sank to the arm 
of the chair and she wept. 

The few minutes that passed were an eternity. Faber 
released Martina from his grasp and averted his face, 
saying: “If you only knew how feverish I am, and how 
cold!” 

She sat bolt upright and pressed her hand against her 
mouth. Sitting thus, she looked at him. 

“T must tell you about a dream I had last night,” he 
said. 

She made room in the seat. “Come here,” she said 
eagerly, “close to me and tell me your dream. Come, 
my dear one, very close to me.” She put her arms 
around his neck, put her head on his breast, and lis- 
tened. He began: 

“I was sitting in a sailors’ wineroom in a harbor city. 
Round about me were a lot of dissipated, dissolute ob- 
jects, men and women. Nobody paid any attention to 
me, but I knew that if I made the least movement, or 
spoke only a syllable, they would attack me. But why 
was I in this wineroom, in which everything was so 
sad and so infamous? Because I had sunk down as in 
deep water, and only one thought came to me: Never 
again will you rise to the surface, for you have lost all 
that is sweet. Ridiculous, it was exactly this word: 
sweet. You have lost what is sweet, the voice cried 
within me, and you cannot imagine with what force. I 


114 FABER 


have never before thought of such an expression; noth- 
ing like this has ever happened to me outside this 
dream. You must know that this sweetness took the 
form of something very definite: it seemed to come 
to me as a silver-white lizard. I was so filled with my 
desire for it that I threw myself flat on the floor, 
pressed my face against the dirty boards and remained 
lying there amid the turbulent laughter of the whole 
vicious crew, while I dug my finger nails into the wood 
and bit my lips until they bled. Thereupon one of the 
women came toward me, the most horrible and lustful 
of them all; in mockery she bared her bosom and there, 
between her breasts, glittered the silver lizard exactly 
as I had pictured it in my terrible vision. I knelt down 
before her; she grinned like a witch and began moving 
backward with the animal held aloft; I, in my fear 
and desperation, could not reach the silver-white sym- 
bol, and, hemmed in on all sides by the beings in that 
narrow room, I began to creep after her on all fours, 
just like an animal, until the hooting and the howling 
became more and more intense and finally roused me 
out of my sleep.” 

There was a pause, and then Faber said, hardly 
audibly, “It seems to me such a dream should hardly 
ever be told.” 

Martina stared before her for a long time in deep 
thought. Then she folded her hands about his head, 


FABER 115 


looked earnestly and tensely into his eyes, and said: 
“Come to me in five minutes.” Then she rose and 
went into her bedroom. He waited there motionless; 
not a muscle moved, not even an eyelash twitched. And 
when he rose to follow her he breathed a sigh of libera- 
tion, as if fetters had suddenly been taken away. 

And after their bodies had been joined together, 
after lips had been loosened from lips, a silence fell 
between them, which increased in intensity and gloom 
from moment to moment and enveloped them like a 
cloud. Faber had turned his face to the ceiling; his lips 
remained half open, his eyes stared immovably and on 
his features seemed written: “Is it possible? Can it 
really be?” Martina lay in a heap on her side, holding 
her head between her naked arms; in her eyes was a 
hint of shame which dared not come into the open, 
whereas her clear brow reflected the sorrow of a woman 
who has found irrevocable verification of her fears and 
‘apprehensions. 


Tt te A 


XI 


FABER arose and sneaked like a miscreant out of the 
room. Upon reaching his chamber he enveloped him- 
self in a lounging robe and took a position in the dark- 
ness near the window. For a while he drew signs and 
words on the pane with his finger, then sat down on 
the edge of his bed, spread his fingers wide apart and 
stared dumbly into the darkness. When dawn arrived 
he was still sitting motionless on the same spot. 

Later, as he lay with wide-open eyes, he heard Mar- 
tina’s voice in the corridor, then Christopher’s clear 
voice, asking for him; then the voice of Faith, calling 
something to the boy from the stairs in a cheerful 
tone. Then he heard Faith and Martina talking to- 
gether and the clatter of dishes—ostensibly they were 
at breakfast; then Martina departed. 

It was a day of rain. Faber attempted to occupy 
himself with his drawings, but could not concentrate 
on one sheet; he seized first this, then that, got up 
again and again and walked through all the rooms. 
He rummaged in drawers and cupboards, found a 
bottle of cognac, took it into his room, and interrupted 
his work again and again in order to pour a drink. 


He left the house before dinner, dined in a little tav- 
116 


FABER 117 


ern, then sat down in a café and gazed through the 
misty window pane out on the street—thus passed 
hour after hour. When twilight came he went to 
Fleming. “We are going to be a bit jolly to-day, 
Fleming,” he told him; “I need you. I am going to 
hunt myself a little silver-white lizard.” 

“You seem to have cheered up considerably, my 


’ 


dear fellow,” replied Fleming. “How do you imagine 
you are going to be jolly, and especially with me? 
And what sort of an animal is it that you are going 
to hunt for?’ He was disturbed, for Faber’s face 
bore an expression of insolence and ill-tempered spite. 

“Don’t ask, simply don’t ask. We are going to 
take a little slumming tour, that’s all. First let me lie 
a few hours on your bed—it’s a bad habit of mine to 
take my siesta at your house—and then we will start.” 
_ Fleming, who almost had a mother’s instinct for 
Faber, saw how things were with him. He did not 
first try to dissuade him from his scheme, did not 
attempt to oppose him, but decided to stay by his side. 
Perhaps he could thus prevent a misfortune. From 
‚time to time he went softly into the bedroom and 






gazed at the features of his friend, who was lying in 
a deep sleep. “It would be best if he slept on until 
morning,” he said softly to himself. But that hope 
was not to be fulfilled. 

The events of this night were entered by Jacob 


118 FABER 


Fleming in his notebook while he was still under their 
spell, and in view of his love of truth and conscien- 
tious observation no more is needed than to follow 
his statement, for without comment or criticism it 
remains wholly objective. The statement reads as 
follows: 


When Faber awoke he again talked in rather silly 
fashion about the silver-white lizard; I told him to 
cease his talk if he would not explain what he meant 
by it. He thereupon urged our going, and on the 
street explained that he wanted to visit the so-called 
Fortuna bar, where, so he had heard, they still enter- 
tained with nude dancers and similar comedy. I was 
shocked, for I had never visited such a resort before 
in my life, but in the face of his obvious agitation it 
would have been useless to attempt to divert him; so 
I resigned myself to the unavoidable, merely remark- 
ing dryly that such places invariably demanded a high 
toll and to my notion he was not exactly swimming in 
wealth. He replied that he had money enough, in 
fact that his purse was still full of dollars left over 
from his trip, and boasted most intolerably about it. 
At first they did not want to admit us to the bar be- 
cause we were not in evening dress, but Eugene be-! 
came so insistent, meanwhile using a deal of English 
slang, that they did not dare turn him back, fearing 





FABER 119 


perhaps that they had to do with a foreigner who was 
probably ready to pay well for his insolence. Eugene 
immediately ordered champagne, which he gulped like 
water. I had to join him, or at least pretend I did, 
and although he was calm enough at first I became 
more and more anxious, for his expression augured 
nothing good. Moreover, the repulsive music, the 
odour of perfume, the heat, the glaring, lustful, and 
coarse faces of the men and women that I saw round 
about me, had a depressing effect on me, and when in 
addition I thought of Martina I could hardly trust my 
reason. But why speak here about myself; I am here 
the least interesting; let it suffice that I cudgelled my 
brains to discover for what reason Eugene had forced 
me to become a companion and participant in his doings. 
There was nothing about me to lead him astray or 
suggest these actions. He referred to the matter later 
on, but not sufficiently to clear things up for me. 

Among the women whose sad task it is to arouse 
the sensuality of a horde of pleasure-seekers was one 
who was undeniably beautiful—black-haired, with a 
dazzling skin and a seductive figure and, so far as I 
can judge, a most skilful dancer. Her pirouetting 
and leaping made one dizzy, and after each of her 
performances, which could hardly be called decent, the 
half-drunken auditorium relaxed. Eugene did not 
remove his eyes from her. After an hour I asked him 


120 FABER 


timidly whether we ought not to leave because it was 
late; he laughed in my face. The girl on her part 
had become aware of Eugene’s attentiveness; doubt- 
less he was one to please her, big and handsome as he 
is, with his pale, suffering expression and his thick, 
chestnut-brown hair. She began gradually to devour 
him with her eyes; during an intermission she ap- 
proached our table, and as if an electrical current had 
passed through both they immediately began to talk 
together in a half confidential, half feverish manner. 
The girl wore nothing but a thin veil across her body; 
around her forehead was a string of pearls, presumably 
artificial. I must admit that she laughed and smiled 
in a way that took one’s breath and her broken and 
slangy German augmented the unhealthy spell that she 
diffused. Moreover, Eugene began to talk English 
with her at once, but such confounded pidgin English 
that I hardly understood any of it, although I speak 
English very fluently. I was completely forgotten, 
not even present so far as those two were concerned. 
After a time Eugene arose with her; she had men- 
tioned an exotic dance that he knew; Eugene had 
always been an exceptional dancer, but the idea that 
he meant to exhibit himself shamelessly in this room 
with a dissolute girl to satisfy the appetites of these 
people was more than I could take calmly; with look 
and gesture I begged him to abstain; he pushed me 


FABER 121 


back with his arm. They danced; it was a repulsive 
dance, cynical and orgiastic, accompanied by music 
that seemed like the crash of broken glasses and the 
howling of hyenas, and when they returned to the 
table amid the echoing bravos and the clamour of ap- 
plause they sat down with their hands entwined. Sud- 
denly I observed that the girl was throwing covetous 
and admiring glances at the sapphire ring Eugene 
wore on his finger. I knew that Martina had given 
him this ring just about ten years before. I can 
hardly describe my sensation when he removed his 
ring in order to place it on the finger of this female. 
And she—she asked whether she might not keep it; 
thereupon he whispered something in her ear. I could 
no longer control myself. “Eugene!” I cried, as a 
warning. He looked boldly at me and remarked, with 
an expression like that of a man half insane, that he 
was giving her the ring merely as a loan; to-morrow 
he would return and redeem it, as if it were in pawn. 
These words he translated for her; she laughed and 
embraced him. At that moment his face turned ashen 
grey. With an expression of disgust, so intense that 
I have never before seen it on a human countenance, 
he pushed the girl so rudely from him that she had to 
seize the edge of the table to keep from falling; she 
coloured; the uncontrolled amazement in her eyes be- 
‘came transformed into indescribable hatred; had she 


122 FABER 


possessed a knife she certainly would have stabbed 
him, for such creatures have a dangerous passion. 
The incident aroused comment; people crowded around 
us; the girl raised her arm and made some remark in 
a hoarse voice. As the clasp had come loose from 
her veil she stood there completely naked. Eugene’s 
head was bowed dejectedly; upon being asked to pay 
his bill he handed me his bill-fold; suddenly a negro 
appeared on the scene and escorted us out with a threat- 
ening look. I stammered: “The ring, Eugene, for 
God’s sake, the ring!” He answered with an angry, 
deprecatory gesture. He himself and everything about 
him seemed to me more incomprehensible than ever. 
We marched through the empty streets in the night. 
A clock struck three. In the neighbourhood of the 
Law Courts building we entered a dark side street and 
came upon a wineroom that was still open or had been 
reopened for the new day. Eugene drew me in with 
him. A few questionable guests sat at the wooden 
tables under a dim light; two or three of them had 
fallen asleep. We sat down in a far corner and 
Eugene demanded cognac. I begged him earnestly 
not to drink the fusel oil that was served here, but he 
gave no heed. For a time he sat in silence and drank 
the hellish stuff, of which a whole bottle had been 
placed before us; a thin trickle of perspiration became 
noticeable on his forehead. Suddenly he turns to me 





| 
| 


| 


FABER 123 


and says: “Well, you were a witness. No one can 
accuse me of having been indifferent to the lady. 
Damned pretty lady. She could eat through ten of 
me, ten spick and span, and start all over again with 
a fresh appetite.” He wiped his brow with his hand- 
kerchief. “What do you mean?” Iask. “You don’t 
mean to say that she was a lady?” He laughs. 
“Don’t be provoked, my virtuous Fleming,’ he re- 
plies. “I mean simply that J am no empty husk. I 
could have matched her to the last. As for her, she 
knew I was not a dead one. She suspected what a fire 
I could have kindled in her, and she in me; yes, even 
in me. You saw that.” I shrug my shoulders and 
reply: “Yes, I did.” He continues darkly: “You are 
on the wrong track, old Fleming, if you think you 
must treat a woman like that with pharisaical con- 
tempt. She is wise to the marrow of her bones and 
Nature tells her no lies. She knows what a woman 
must know in order to slip through the slimy hands 
of males and come out more or less unharmed, and 
you may be certain that once she casts a glance at any- 
body she is sure of herself and of him. Then the 
slogan is: Give nothing for nothing, and much for 


much, and when the heart is involved give—under cer- 
tain circumstances—everything. That’s how things 
stand.” To which I respond: “Very well, but is it 


your duty, and worthy of you, Eugene Faber, to carry 


124 FABER 


her colours? Perhaps there are others who can do 
her justice, others who can dig in the slime for pearls. 
But not you. And you know why not.” He looks at 
me silently for a while and then asks: “Do you believe 
me, Fleming?” I cannot contradict him, for he is the 
most honourable of men, incapable of misrepresenta- 
tion. “Do you believe me?” he continues, bending 
forward over the table so that I am able to look into 
his serious brown eyes. “Do you believe me when I 
tell you that in all these years I have not touched a 
woman, not even in my thoughts?” I nod. “And 
you don’t suppose there has been any lack of oppor- 
tunity or incentive? The world is wide and life is 
very varied, yet everywhere the same blood runs 
through men’s veins. And yet not a fibre in me 
caught fire, in spite of what the mind imagines and 
fever digs up out of our animal nature. Don’t let us 
speak about it. Presumably you have never thought 
about that in your complacent wisdom.’ “No,” I 
reply, “I have never thought about that.” “Good, 
that’s what I wanted to hear,” he replies. “And now 
listen carefully and, if you can, piece this together for 
yourself; I grasp the goblet, the goblet is full of wine, 
famished I put it to my mouth and drink and drink, 
and suddenly discover that it does not slake my thirst; 
a cold shudder runs through me and suddenly I know 
that what I am drinking is empty air. How is that 


FABER 125 


possible? Perhaps thus: The hand that gives you the 
goblet is compassionate, you understand, only compas- 
sionate; nothing else of what you imagined, not even 
impatient to drink with you, merely compassionate.’ 
And compassion, Fleming, is the last thing in the‘ 
world that I want when I come with my whole heart | 
and soul.” Again he wipes the perspiration from his 
forehead and I, unhappily, do not understand. It 
seems to me that he has poured down too much of the 
vile spirits and that his mental powers are in a mist. 
Upon observing my astonishment he laughs a short 
Taugh and then sinks again into brooding silence. I 
‘succeed in getting him to leave only after an effort. 

Outside, dawn was breaking; he said he would 
rather not go home, could he sleep in my house? So 
‘we went to my house and in the emergency I pre- 
‘pared a bed for him on the sofa. Half undressed, he 
‘threw himself upon it and fell immediately into a deep 
sleep, which lasted fourteen hours without interrup- 
ition. I myself could rest very little; first of all, be- 
“cause my day begins without a break at the same time, 
and then because the events occupied me entirely too 
“much to let me close an eye. Although I found upon 
prolonged reflection that many of Eugene’s words 
were no longer so enigmatic to me as at first, and 
that they disclosed to me, as if through a cloudy 
mist, the demoralizing fight of two souls, I am still 


126 FABER 


for the most part as much at a loss as before. It 
seems beyond question, not only that Eugene’s equi- 
poise has been disturbed, but also that events have 
taken place which remain hidden from me and which 
he cannot or will not tell me about. In the meantime 
I have learned that Martina has gone to England with 
the Princess, leaving on the afternoon before Eugene 
came to me and without saying farewell to him. The 
decision had to be made within an hour; the resolu- 
tion was made at four o’clock, and at six passports 
and tickets were ready. I hear that the business con- 
cerns important conferences with the directors of the 
mission; the Princess, who naturally did not wish to 
travel alone, chose Martina as her escort, and the 
latter was said to have been so happy about it that the 
letter she left for Eugene was composed of only a 
few sentences thrown together in the greatest haste. 
Unfortunately by such rash actions she increases the 
tenseness of a situation already dangerous, and any 
one who does not know her as I know her may well 
doubt the permanence of a tie that I consider unbreak- 
able from a metaphysical standpoint, no matter how 
much practical observers and amateur psychologists 
may shake their heads over it. 


XII 


WHEN Faber reached home at about nine o’clock in 
the evening Faith gave him Martina’s letter. Mar- 
tina’s departure—he was not prepared for that. His 
face turned deathly pale. He said nothing, so Faith 
left the room. He took the letter once more in his 
hand and unintentionally counted the words—those 
few words. The tone of the letter was frankly affec- 
tionate; among other things he read: “You well know 
“what it means to me to have the Princess wholly to 
myself for once.” The letter closed as follows: “It is 
‘not yet certain how long we will be away, in no case 
longer than ten days. Faith will provide everything 
for you; my two men could not be better taken care 
| of. Farewell. Your Martina.” “Your” was under- 
lined twice. 

He sat with his head resting on his hands when 
"Faith returned and inquired whether he needed any- 
| thing. He asked for black coffee. After a short in- 
terval she brought the coffee, spread the cloth and put 
‘down the cup almost noiselessly. She was not only 
quiet, but also gave the impression that she wanted to 
be invisible. She wore a simple black house dress and 


a snow-white apron. Her features also attracted the 
127 


128 FABER 


eye because of something clean in them, even scoured; 
the look she gave him from under her peculiar thick 
eyebrows, which had a suggestion of fantasy in their 
upward swing, was calm, with no glimmer of com- 
passion, in fact no emphasis on presence or self- 
consciousness. 

“Did you wait for me last night after Martina 
left?’ asked Faber. 


“Yes, I stayed up until nearly twelve,’ 


’ 


she replied. 
“T did not want you to get the letter so impersonally; 
I intended to give it to you myself. But you did not 
come home.” 

Here was no undertone of blame or inquiry, merely 
fact. He was silent. When she turned to leave he 
said: “Wouldn’t you like to keep me company a 
little? Perhaps you will also drink a cup.” 

“Gladly,” she said, brought another cup, sat down, 
and filled it. He glanced at her hands, which were 
very well formed; narrow, somewhat bony, with 
sharply tapering fingers and a pleasing economy of 
movement. He shook his head and spoke as if to 
himself, still gazing at her hands. “I have had the 
feeling until now that you are avoiding me. And not 
only that, but as if you were doing it in an unfriendly 
way. Perhaps I was mistaken?” 

“Yes. You were mistaken in that,’ was the dry 
answer. 


FABER 129 


“So much the better. No one wants to start ill 
feeling in a member of the same household. But I 
am obstinate. Strange people confuse me. The 
stranger irritates me, so that I say ‘No,’ even when I 
should say ‘Yes.’ Mistrust lies in my nature like the 
germ of a chronic fever. In practically all my dreams 
I am unjustly persecuted.” 

“Odd. But you had such a happy youth,” said 
Faith. 

“Happy? <A silly word—happy. No one should 
describe another’s condition as happy. Who knows of 
another’s happiness? Happy youth. . . . Well, let us 
see. We had liberty, more than we craved. We were 
even reared without religion, so that our spirit might 
not be hampered. Finally, religion demands submis- 
‘sion before a god or a dogma. And we were to be 
spared such submission. And because they had such 
‚fear that we might be hemmed in, and such eagerness 
‘to clear all obstacles out of our way, and convinced 
‚us with such thoroughness of the omniscience of our 
own selves, none of us could hurry fast enough to 
forge his own chains, each in his own way, the very 
chains from which we had been protected with so 
much care and worry. One of us bled to death for 
‚his learning, in his first intoxication; the second de- 
‘Stroyed himself for the sake of a bad woman; the 
third sold herself into a loveless marriage and is now 


130 FABER 


trafficking with the church—and I? My formula is 
not so simple. It is hard to discover. I won't even 
attempt to.” | 

Faith listened in rapt attention, her face shining as 
if from an inner light and her eyes never leaving 
him. No doubt this readiness and eagerness to listen 
spurred him on. He began to tell her about his child- 
hood. Urged on by her animated eyes, he spoke of 
events and feelings that he probably recalled now for 
the first time. He said that as a boy he had been so 
lacking in human sympathy that he got a sort of 
lascivious pleasure out of exposing the weaknesses of. 
men to himself and others; no achievement com-, 
manded his respect, and his first word, his first im- 
pulse, had always been to mock. He and his brothers 
and sisters made it a practice not to believe, not to 
admire, and not to acknowledge, and when they were 
hardly able to read properly they prepared a satirical, 
periodical, to which each contributed caricatures or 
parodies every week. Once a priest had come to their 
home to deliver a message to his father; the parents 
being away, he had engaged pleasantly in conversation 
with the children, of whom Karl, the oldest, was then 
twelve years; in a short time they had treated the good 





priest, who was well along in years, to such a mass of 
blasphemies and indecencies that he had crossed him- 
self continuously and at last taken to flight, accom- 


| 


FABER 131 


panied by the shrill laughter of the four. The mother 
had amused herself royally at this incident and swept 
aside his father’s timid scruples. Once his father re- 
ceived from one of his friends the gift of a lovely old 
painting, which gave him a great deal of pleasure and 
which he hung in the living room. The man in question, 
who had given the painting to his father, was ob- 
noxious to Eugene and Clara for some reason or 
‘Other; he was a boastful, silly, and gossipy fellow, 
‘whose decency and friendly disposition the father 





‚often had to defend against the two. But they nursed 
their ineradicable hatred, and one day when they were 
‘alone in the house, as was so often the case, they made 


| 


use of the opportunity, took the Flaubert-gun which 
‘Karl had bought for himself, and made the oil paint- 





ing on the wall their target until it was as full of 
holes as a sieve and completely destroyed. These were 
‘not solely foolish and undisciplined boys’ tricks; they 
| 


(were more, much more, and with a penetrating ex- 





pression Eugene drove home his words: they were akin 
‘to the rioting of lawless groups. For in this case, 
and in every similar case, there was never any thought 
‘of punishment or admonition. The most that happened 
‘was cross-examination and criticism. This patient 
temporizing, this indulgent comprehension and consid- 
‘eration, was a constant incitement, smothered all 


‘warnings of conscience, and undermined all restrain- 





| 
| 
1 
| 


132 FABER 


ing bulwarks. He especially found himself drawn 
more and more into wild and irresponsible actions of 
spite through this, as if there were within him a secret 
will and a wish to strike against opposition that would 
finally overcome forces that were running wild so 
disastrously. He recalled that as early as seven years 
of age he had lied passionately whenever the owner- 
ship of personal possessions came into question, not 
as the result of teaching and example, or the comment 
of adults and external influences; no, rather from his 
inner promptings, from his inner impulse toward de- 
struction and revolt. He had plunged into paroxysms 
of anger when any one near him declared that he 
owned this or that object or possessed this or that 
thing; he was then impelled solely by the desire tc 
take this from him or at least to challenge the owner- 
ship, and in many instances like this he and his 
brothers and sisters came to fights not wholly harm- 
less. Once when Roderick had received a watch for 
his birthday he rushed upon him with a knife, robbed 
him of his watch, and then threw it out of the window 





to the street, in order that it might not belong to any 
one. He recalled that one of his father’s patients, 2 
merchant, who had been coming regularly for some 
time, was suspected one day of perpetrating petty 
thefts in the anteroom. Now an album was missing 
then a bronze figure, then again a porcelain dish 


FABER 133 


When his parents discussed the matter and considered 
the advisability of informing the police he flew into 
violent opposition and decided on the foolhardy plan 
of not only warning the man but also taking money 
secretly from his father and giving it to the thief. He 
did both and later confessed this to his father. He 
still remembered clearly the tragic helplessness in his 
father’s face; then he suddenly regretted his act and 
in his way of always going to extremes he threw 
himself down and sobbed. All that seemed long ago, 
said Eugene, with melancholy reflection, but in truth 
it was very near, even contemporary, for it had be- 
come thoroughly a part of him. When a mature man 
speaks of his childhood he sees the distant past flit by 
like a shadow, miraculously shortened, he might say; 
but when he lives it, it extends over unending num- 
bers of days and nights; he found that childhood par- 
ticularly was the longest, the most retarding, and in 
development the most cruel of all the ages of man. 
Where the thirty-year-old man experiences a moment 
of darkness, or dejection, of criminal impulse, the lad 
feels himself damned for eternity; for him the hour: 
has much more weight and an importance that cannot 
be estimated in comparison. He did not wish to look 
back, but when he did it seemed to him that he had 
followed a cold, bare, fearfully lonely path without 
hope of turning about or finding a way back, going 


134 FABER 


blindly and wildly toward destruction; but at the mo 
ment when he felt that the whole world was lost tc 





him he had met Martina. 

He stopped and Faith did not interrupt his silence 
Her eyes were lowered, her expression showed intens« 
reflection; with her right hand she broke up bits o! 
biscuit on the tablecloth. 

“Without Martina I go back to the old, cold, bare 
path,” he said, after a long pause. “In these six 
years I have seen this secret danger grow and could 
not defend myself. It was like the darkness that 
comes slowly down over you. For seven years I had 
known the light of day, and when I had to leave her 
the light began to fade even then. And then again 
seven years—they will be over soon.” A deep ver- 
tical furrow showed on his forehead. “I suppose you 
think me a sad caricature, a man who depends so ex- 
clusively on his love for his wife. You think so, 
don’t you?” 

Faith slowly shook her head. 

“But it is not that,” he continued; “love, that does 
not signify anything.” He was silent again for a 
while, then he asked suddenly : “How did you actually 
get acquainted with Martina—under what circum- 
stances? Can you tell me that?” 

Faith reddened quickly. Immediately afterward all 
colour left her face. “I would have to go back too 


FABER 135 


far for that,’ she replied softly. “It presupposes too 
much of my life.’ 

“Pardon me,” Faber said, somewhat shocked; “I 
don’t wish to appear indiscreet.” 

She made a gesture of aversion. “There are things 
that call for nothing but silence. But that is never- 
theless possible. When I first saw Martina I was lying 
in a hospital. The Princess had sent her to me. I 
was very ill at that time, suffering more from the 
loss of a will to live and go on than anything else. 
Also my heart was not acting very well, but my phys- 
ical distress was of the least importance. The Prin- 
cess had known me long, knew my name and my 
past life, and naturally knew what she was about 
when she caused Martina to visit me. If there is a 
remedy for an ailing human being she will find it, no 
matter what turn fate has taken. She is inspired. 
She conjures up the picture of a man—his suffering, 
his acts, his guilt; she imagines the most unattractive 
portrait of him and forms her judgment, which seems 
to come from on high and sounds like a divine revela- 
tion. I still recall how the door opened and Mar- 
tina entered. My first feeling was one of astonish- 
ment. How is it possible, thought I, that something 
so radiant still exists in the world, in this world? She 
seats herself at my bedside, she speaks, she takes my 
hand, she laughs, she is gentle, and after a quarter of 


| 


136 FABER 


an hour I seem transformed. There was a stone in 
my breast, my whole inner self had turned to stone; 
suddenly it moved away and life began again.” 

Faber drank in the serious and emphatic words that 
came from her lips. “I can well believe it,” he mur- 
mured, and placed his folded hands on the table. 

“At that time I did not have the least desire to 
enter into friendly relations with any one again, not 
the very least,” Faith continued, and Faber observed 
that she spoke of this period only with an effort, over- 
coming a deep reluctance; “I can’t describe how I felt. 
I simply did not want to make the effort any more. 
I was in dread when the day dawned after any of the 
countless sleepless nights; the striking of every hour 
terrified me. Martina took me out of all this. A new 
world suddenly opened for me and bade fair to make 
me forget the old. Yet nothing really happened. 
There was no direction, no plan, no discussion, no 
preconsidered action; it merely came about because she 
is without guile, wholly innocent through and through, 
and because everything she says and does comes out 
of the nature of things, so that one never doubts, 
never resists; such an apparition was wholly new to 
me. Later, when I was already settled in this house 
and had need of a few new dresses and lingerie she 
went with me to the shops, and when, on several occa- 
sions, I had to consult public officials about my papers 


FABER 137 


she made this an outing; we traversed the street laugh- 
ing like schoolgirls; I suddenly found it a pleasure to 
buy a dress and a hat, and the police officer, who 
would have been sullen had I come alone, was agree- 
able and courteous because she stood by my side. 
People adapt themselves to her; they hide their evil 
qualities from her; no liar can tell a lie when she 
looks at him. And she does not know this—she is 
always innocent. I have been living with her many 
months and yet she has not asked once about my past, 
not even with a look. She takes you into her confi- 
dence and is content with you as you are. She does 
not deceive herself; tangible things do not deceive 
Ber.” 

“Yes, that is true, she is like that, exactly like that,” 
said Faber, with a brooding expression. “She never 
asked you questions—yes, that is the actual Martina. 
You could have given me nothing more characteristic. 
She is without curiosity almost to a laughable degree. 
She carries it so far that she forgets to ask about 
things—actually forgets—which would be both impor- 
tant and useful for her to know. I often became dis- 
tressed years ago because she never asked about any- 
thing. One might imagine that she was not interested 
in any one, not even in those who were closest to her.” 

Faith smiled. “Without curiosity, you call it,” she 
remarked; “that is something most unusual in a 


138 FABER 


woman. But it comes from the fact that she knows 
nothing about convulsion, Nearly all people to-day 
act convulsively. She is free from it, she is never 
under a strain, and he who is not under a strain is 
naturally also not curious.” 

“But didn’t you hope she would ask?” Faber in- 
quired. “Did not her reticence seem lack of interest 
to you? Surely one redeems oneself when one can 
confide in a friend.” 

“No, I did not want that,” Faith replied softly. 
“Why uncover the past when it is so dark? By being 
near Martina and with her I became more and more 
calm; it seemed sometimes as if the horror had hap- 
pened to me in a former life. When I am alone for 
a longer time, of course everything comes back to 
me, and then I know it actually happened, and hap- 
pened to me.” 

She raised her look and met his. They gazed at 
each other, each occupied with his own fate. It was 
unusually quiet in the house and on the street. Only 
a light rain trickled almost imperceptibly on the win- 
dow panes. But when one listened for a time it took 
on the sound of heavy knocking. 

“Did you ever hear the name of Henry Kapruner ?” 
Faith asked suddenly, with a changed, hoarse voice 
and without turning from his look. 


He reflected. Yes, he had heard the name. Did 


FABER 139 


she refer to the revolutionist and radical prophet? 
He had read of him in foreign newspapers. “He was 
shot, if I recall rightly,” he added. 

“Shot? No. Killed. Massacred.” She was as 
white as the table linen. She dropped her eyes and 
after a while said with difficulty: “I am his widow.” 

She became silent and Faber did not dare to break 
her silence. He gazed at her nervously moving hand 
and waited. It seemed that something was urging 
her to speak and that by mention of the name she had 
already gone too far to retrace her steps. It seemed 
also that the frankness with which Faber had spoken 
of his boyhood years had stirred the desire in her to 
reciprocate his confidence. 

And so, speaking in a pleasant though sombre tone 
and in an even rhythm, she began her story. 


XIII 
THE STORY FAITH TOLD 


“I was born in a middle-sized North German town 
and passed part of my childhood and youth in south- 
ern Germany on an estate belonging to a brother of 
my mother. It was a large and beautiful estate, in 
extensive wooded and hilly country. My father came 
from a Junker family, that is to say, from the lesser 
nobility; his rank as officer raised him to the ruling 
caste. He could consider himself a patron of the 
town, and this position, which he assumed, was 
granted him. I saw constantly only men who de- 
meaned themselves before him or who flattered him. 
When he met no opposition he was an agreeable and 
polite man, although distant and formal. 

“My mother was of much nobler birth than he, 
Every moment of her life gave proof of her descent 
from an ancient house and a lineage historically 
famed, which had fought for the faith in the eastern 
provinces in ancient times and had produced men of 
undying renown. My father respected her pride of 
birth and in the family circle treated her with rather 
formal distinction. I mentioned before that my rela- 


tions to the Princess went back far; the Princess is a 
140 


FABER 141 


relative of my mother several degrees removed and 
my mother had never forgiven her for stepping out 
of her sphere of exclusiveness and making herself 
common with the people, as she expressed it. In my 
childhood I heard a great deal said about the Prin- 
cess, but solely derogatory, even among the relatives 
in South Germany; but when, at about my fifteenth 
year, I had an opportunity of seeing her, I was greatly 
struck by her beauty and gentleness and began to 
doubt much, although timidly and almost uncon- 
sciously. She had come because my mother had de- 
manded it. My mother wished to see her once more. 
She was ill and expected to die. 

“I do not think we were poor; certainly we were 
not rich. ‘ Jewels and furnishings had been handed 
down for hundreds of years. Our mode of life might 
have been said to fit our station. This was deter- 
mined by irrevocable forms and laws. It laid down 
tules for every individual, affecting what he said and 
what he did. None could say or do anything not 
expected of him. Social intercourse developed accord- 
ing to a program. Judgments on men and events 
always seemed dictated by a higher authority. To 
oppose this was impossible. To express an opinion 
that was not the opinion of all would have caused the 
greatest consternation. The relatives in the south 
were slightly more liberal, but actually so only in 


142 FABER 


words, in expressions, and in the quickened tempera- 
ment; the fundamental note, when I come to think of 
it, was in harmony with the same rigidity. The mood 
was better, and laughter came more easily. To me it 
was as different as day and night. 

“Naturally when one is brought up in such an 
atmosphere it becomes difficult for the mind to under- 
stand that there is such a thing as a different custom 
and a different life. How can it be discovered? It 
does not exist in the imagination, and the will is 
wholly suppressed. To-day I know. To-day I know 
that I was a marionette up to my twentieth year, for 
then ideas first came to me and the old clock would no 
longer keep time. That is to say, there arrived some 
one who took the wheels apart, cut the strings and 
looked inside to see whether it actually contained a 
human soul. Up to that time my whole existence had 
been made up of—what shall I say?—Jiving under 
restraint. Every wish was impeded by restraint. All 
thoughts were by compulsion, all intercourse was by 
compulsion, every conversation was a ceremonial rite. 
When alone I was in an unfathomable empty space, 
almost gruesome; when among people I was in an 
iron cage. And all without knowing it, which gives 
everything a ghostly cast, despite the fact that I at- 
tended balls and the theatre, indulged in sports and 
talked about the future and my hopes. You turn. 


| FABER 143 


around on the same spot, and people remark, ‘That is 
a lovely view,’ and you reply, ‘Yes,’ and strike an atti- 
tude of rapture, and he who stands behind you, who 
“holds the strings in his hands, keeps watch to see that 
you do not go one step too far, so that your rapture 
“does not exceed the proper measure. I recall the 
“terror I experienced when some one described a new 
book to me, or merely mentioned its title—a strange 
feeling of terror such as comes when you are used to 
sleeping behind barred doors and suddenly hear some 
one draw back the bolt. You are always trembling; 
there are railings right and left wherever you go; be- 
yond is the Unknown, the Danger, the Unfettered. 
Thus you experience nothing, and apprehend nothing, 
you do not even hear or see; all the senses are im- 
prisoned, and thus thousands exist, and exist even now. 
In time, and very, very slowly, came a thought that 
disturbed me: I am not really myself, I am a dif- 
ferent ‘I,’ perhaps not that of a human being, but the 
‘T’ of a shadow or an idol. And I asked myself 
logically: where am I, and who am I, if my ‘TI’ does 
not belong to me, if I am the ‘I’ of my father, and 
my mother, and my relatives and my ancestors? That 
was actually the beginning of confusion or secession, 
as you will. 
“Tt was soon after I became twenty years old that 
I travelled again to the estate of my relatives in order 


144 FABER 


to pass the summer and fall there. To forget thi 
summer is hardly possible, for it was the one during 
which the war broke out. I had not a trace of am 
inkling or expectation of that and I knew nothing o: 
world affairs; I was merely pleased with the less re 
stricted life in the country. In the first days I ever 
made all sorts of plans with my cousins; there were 
three sisters between sixteen and twenty, so that I was 
the oldest. All three were pretty and clever girls 
although decidedly haughty ; they considered any mem- 
ber of the middle class a being of second rank, and 
once I overheard an old master craftsman, whose 
greeting they had scarcely acknowledged, say behind 
their backs: ‘Dear God of mine, it seems you must 
have made the likes of me on the eighth day.’ I got 
along excellently with them, chiefly because I pos- 
sessed the faculty of never taking sides and always 
adopted a friendly attitude. 

“Our favourite visit was to a tenant who lived 
about half an hour from the manor house and who 
had instituted a kennel of pedigreed dogs, all huge 
bulldogs. We girls were on good terms with the ani- 
mals, of which there were six, or eight the last year, 
for we knew practically all since birth and each one 
of us had a dog that she preferred and that was par- 
ticularly devoted to her. We often moved over the 
countryside with the whole pack; a beautiful sight it 


FABER 145 





was—the dogs obeying on the instant, and the young 
women in white dresses; then we would rest, with the 





dogs around us, one at the feet of his mistress, another 
with his head in her lap, a third before her in a ma- 


jestic pose. I can still see the animals, with their dark 





attentive eyes and their powerful, supple bodies; some- 
nervously with low growls, while their lips trembled. 
The tenant never neglected to warn us to have a care 
and keep two of the dogs, of whose disposition he 
was not confident, in leash; in spite of the fact that 


times I was almost frightened when they started up 





we moved within an area surrounded by fences it hap- 
| pened at times that strangers strayed into it—some- 
thing that might easily produce a catastrophe. But of 
‘this we had gradually become wholly oblivious. One 
day when we were gossiping while camping under the 
willows near the stream my dog gave a warning noise. 
I ordered her to desist; but she sprang up and took 
several tremendous leaps toward the wood. Two, 
three of the other dogs follow barking; before we can 
gather our wits a horrible cry rings out; we dash to 
the spot; there lies a man: the dog has felled him to 
the ground and has already lacerated his shoulder and 
the upper part of one arm. We stand paralyzed by 
terror. I am the first to seize the dog and drag him 
away; my youngest cousin runs to the water and 
moistens her handkerchief; another tries to stop the 


146 FABER 


flow of blood with moss; the third hurries to the 
tenant’s house for help, for the man has become un- 
conscious. Men-servants arrive with a litter; the in- 
jured man is carried to the tenant’s house; the physi- 
cian is called and he directs that the dog be examined 
and binds the wounds of the badly injured man. It is 
his verdict that the injury is not mortal, but that the 
recovery will take weeks, provided always that the dog 
is not suffering with rabies. This was not likely, and 
it turned out later that the dog was not affected. It 
would have been both difficult and ill-advised to trans- 
port the injured man into the city; and as ordinary 
comforts were not available at the tenant’s house he 
was carried into the manor house the following day 
at the order of my uncle, so that he might be nursed 
and given the Pasteur treatment there. My cousins 
and I visited him alternately, for we felt guilty toward 
him, and I even more than the others; we learned that 
his name was Kapruner and that he was a private 
tutor who had been living in the near-by town for the 
last few months; he was a man in the middle thirties, 
and when I saw him for the first time and felt his 
penetrating look upon me while he asked a few ques- 
tions in an unconcerned and friendly fashion, I felt 
myself become strangely disturbed and must have con- 
ducted myself like a very foolish girl, for he smiled 


FABER 147 


continuously, although I knew that he was suffering 
severe pain. 

“I expected that the man who had nearly bled to 
death through our carelessness would stay in the 
manor house and be nursed there until he was on a 
fair way to recovery; this was both stated and de- 
cided on. But on the third day the motor ambulance 
came from the city and removed the patient, who was 
still suffering from a severe fever. I was greatly 
_ astonished by this; I asked the cause of the change in 
plan. My cousins shrugged their shoulders, as much 
astonished as I; my aunt answered evasively and at 
a loss; I turn to my uncle, and his face reflects a 
peculiar bitterness. He does not wish to answer me; 
but I persist; thereupon he declares unwillingly, and 
with a show of reluctance, that he has discovered only 
to-day that Kapruner is an individual of bad repute. 
“How so?” I ask, horrified. But he does not wish to 
give me any further explanation. I persist. Such 
obstinacy on my part is new even to me. He finally 
explains to me that Kapruner has been occupied for 
years with the production and dissemination of revo- 
| lutionary writings; he is a destroyer of youth and a 
| poisoner of the mind, an enemy of society and of the 
| state, and any one who respects his station cannot 
tolerate a man of this character for a single day in 


148 FABER 


his house and in the neighbourhood of his family. All 
this sounded trumped up to me and had something 
of an undertone of cowardice which did not escape 
me. Later on I often observed this sort of cowardice 
under similar circumstances. My brooding over what 
I had heard brought me nothing, for I did not asso- 
ciate it with any idea. But two facts seemed to me 
incontrovertible: First, the face and the personality of 
the man did not seem compatible with the report of 
his evil practices; secondly, the act of turning a man 
in such a dangerous condition out of the house was a 
cruelty that could not be justified. The» more I 
weighed the two matters, the more uncertain I be- 
came. My uncle had even given strict orders against 
our making inquiry about Kapruner’s condition; he 
could not have conducted himself worse if his house 
had sheltered a patient with a contagious disease. It 
came about that a university professor from the city 
paid a visit to my relatives; during a favourable mo- 
ment I found an opportunity to speak to him alone and 
asked him about Kapruner; I encountered the same 
embarrassment, the same cowardice. When he had 
overcome his astonishment at my question, he hur- 
riedly stammered something like this: a man, perhaps 
animated by the best of motives—he would not dis- 
pute on that point—but certainly an irresponsible and 
reckless fellow who was a danger to sacred institu- 


FABER 149 


tions, one of those numerous modern agitators who by 
speech and writing impair the structure of the state 
that has been reared so painfully and for some reason 
cannot be sufficiently checked by the universal ban 
against them. He hoped before heaven that I had not 
shown any sort of partiality to a character like this. 
On that point I reassured him, but I was no longer 
willing to depend on what somebody had heard or 
said; during my first visit to the city I bought one of 
Kapruner’s writings and read it secretly at night. It 
was a social-political brochure, much too deep for my 
understanding, but it made me feel, rather darkly, but 
with more and more conviction during further read- 
ings, that here fought an eloquent and upright spirit . 
of tremendous importance, who was engaged with all 
his powers and talents in lightening the burdens of 
his fellow men. Suddenly I was overcome with anger 
at the conduct of my relatives, and this increased hour 
by hour. This happened all at once. I saw myself 
equally guilty in a crime, worse still, in an indecent 
and dishonourable undertaking. I did not want Ka- 
pruner to believe that I was in agreement with my 
telatives and that I had thoughtlessiy_ reconciled myself 
to what had happened. So I wrote him, informed 
him of my feelings, and begged him for a few lines 
in reply, giving the address of the tenant, whom I 
had first notified that I might call at his house for a 


150 FABER 


letter. Kapruner replied in friendly condescension 
but not without an air of bitter resignation. In con- 
clusion he asked me to write him about myself; my 
words had moved him; my conduct was so unusual 
when compared with the temper of my surroundings, 
that he almost felt sympathy for me. Thus we began 
a correspondence. Each fresh letter from him re- 
moved something of my hardened shell; each sent a 
ray of light into the dark recesses of my heart; each 
contained an idea that startled me. I had not the 
faintest conception that such ideas existed, that the 
world could be regarded from another side, that one 
man could unlock so much for another. I saw my 
dungeon; I was able to grasp the bars with my hands; 
I recall that from now on I hardly slept or ate, so 
thoroughly did these thoughts consume me. And 
imagine my feelings when finally we saw each other, 
and met, always secretly, in secret places of the coun- 
tryside. To meet became a necessity for us; in the 
meantime he had entirely recovered and his wound 
had healed, although a lameness remained in his left 
arm. He said that he had been able to keep the news 
of his troublesome accident from his mother, as she 
was visiting in her native province during his illness 
and had returned only a few days ago; he shared the 
household with her and had already told her about 
me. What he told me about his mother was very 


= = 


FABER 151 


important, but did not strike me so; I was too eager 
‘to profit by his teaching, to bare my uneventful, nar- 
row life to him, just as one avows sinful conduct in 
the confessional. I feared greatly that I might be dis- 
covered, although declarations of war and the tumult 
of war filled the earth these very days and turned 
suspicious eyes from me. My father arrived for 
twenty-four hours; he noticed as little as the others 
how things stood with me, so that I profited by the 
universal confusion. I, too, was drawn into the mad 
whirl by the wild intoxication and the lust for battle 
all about me, by enthusiasm shown by men of the 
highest and lowest rank, but Kapruner wanted me 
otherwise. He was calm and cool, he alone, and once, 
toward evening, as we walked through the woods he 
spoke to me about it. I shall never forget the day and 
the hour; it was on the fifth of September and the 
whole landscape was bathed in a sunset red as blood. 
He said that there was but one thing that he hated 
with heart and soul, deep down to the marrow of his 
bones, and that was force and might. And then in 
his quiet manner he explained to me how all the mis- 
fortunes of mankind originated in might and oppres- 
sion, speaking in his der voice, which always stirred 
a rumbling echo in h’, breast and which convinced 
me without my he: “ig his words. Lies were born 
from force and oppression, incessantly, undeniably. 


152 FABER 


The whole history of mankind was the result of coer- 
cion and force, a continuous succession of blood 
sacrifices, battle atrocities, civil wars, executions and 
murder in every form. Thousands always rose up 
against a bringer of peace and a prophet of beauty and 
happiness—preaching hatred and destruction, hatred 
between peoples, race hatred, and what they lacked in 
telling arguments they filled out with lies, nothing but 
lies; they were filled and animated by nothing else 
but greed, envy of competitors, and lust for power 
and possessions. No great physician, no great in- 
ventor, no great astronomer had ever enjoyed even 
approximately so much veneration and fame as those 
who goaded their fellow men into death by the mil- 
lions, and any one who dared oppose this was silenced 
and annihilated even in the memories of men. But 
to fear such a fate was impossible, even if the wall to’ 
be scaled reached as high as the heavens, even if one 
sank up to the neck in the ruin wrought by fire and 
destruction, started by force and lies. One must pro- 
claim that all men are the children of God, equally 
members of one body, and that one cannot rob, cheat, 
and revile one’s neighbour without robbing, cheating, 
and reviling oneself. It was necessary to live accord- 
ing to the teachings of Christ, in the spirit and the 
truth, not merely according to $he letter and the lie. 
Yet for nineteen hundred years only solitary indi- 


| FABER 153 


viduals had made the attempt or done it, and these 
had suffered nothing less than the fate of Christ him- 
self. For this reason every fifth man in our civiliza- 
tion found his end in the poorhouse, or in the hospital, 
or in the asylum for the insane, and in times of war 
every third man fell on the battlefield or through star- 
vation and epidemics. Something had to be done 
about it, for with such a burden on his conscience 
man could no longer live, nor breathe, nor laugh, nor 
entertain happy thoughts. Work must be made inde- 
‘pendent of money, and there must no longer be judge 





‘or punishment; no one must seize possession of the 
‘body and soul of another; man must reach the state 
that makes him see a bit of his God in another human 
being and become always aware and vitally conscious 
that he will make God suffer, when he lets the vilest 
of his brothers suffer; that he will make God starve, 
when he permits a child to starve. 

“Thus he spoke to me, this outlaw, the man who 
had been turned out of the house I lived in as if he 
were afflicted with vermin. I took note of it, word 
for word; I treasured it in my memory, and I know 
that for me it will never grow old or fade. 

“Meanwhile we had been seen together that day. 
But this seemed so unlikely that it was not believed. 
I was therefore watched and surrounded by spies, and 
when they had become sure I suddenly discovered 


154 FABER 


nothing but cold, antagonistic faces round about me 
my cousins no longer extended their hands, my uncle 
and aunt formally dropped their eyes when they saw 
me, and even the servants looked shyly and darkly at 
me. I learned much later that Kapruner, whose 
former lapses would have been forgiven and forgotter 
gladly had he held his peace, had made no secret of 
his convictions, and in his overconfidence had put him- 
self at odds with a whole nation. He had taken the 
dangerous course of warning men against the uni- 
versal madness and foretold its terrible results fot 
Germany, for Europe and for mankind at large. He 
was answered with anger and wrath. He no longeı 
dared appear on the streets and, as I learned later, 
fled to one of his friends, who had a lonely lodge 
near by and kept him hidden for weeks. He left this 
place of refuge only to see me and only his mother 
knew where he was. On my part I suddenly saw 
myself involved in his fate; I was expected to make 
an explanation. I was not prepared for that; I did 
not know what to say, what to do; should I defend 
myself, should I accuse others? Against what should 
I turn? Then one day my uncle, stern and drawn up 
to his full height, asked me whether the facts meant 
that I carried on relations with Kapruner. I had been 
seen in his company not once, but many times; was 
this true and, if so, how could I explain this incom- 








FABER 155 


srehensible conduct? I replied that it was true and 
that I had nothing to explain except the one thing that 
[ considered my fortune indissolubly bound up with 
that of Kapruner. If the beams of the ceiling had 
crashed down my relatives could not have been more 
ıorrified. I looked into nothing but pale, distorted 
faces. I must say in passing that up to that moment 
[ had not formulated the thought that I spoke so 
almly and confidently, not even a whisper of it had 
yeen hinted at or discussed between Kapruner and 
myself, and therefore I also did not know whether 
ae wanted me as wife and companion. I had spoken 
is a wife, and wholly against my intention. But their 
looks and expressions drove it out of me as if by 
command. Then the following happened. My uncle 
decided that I should not leave my room until my 
father had been notified and his verdict reached us. 
When I tried to defend myself he ordered me locked 
up. So that is the logic you use, thought I, and this 
is your argument: Force. How truly Kapruner was 
right! I had to submit. But after I had passed the 
first night in the locked room and my agitation over 
this insult had grown almost unbearable, I made plans 
for flight. During the next night I made a rope out 
of bed-linen and the cords of hangings and let myself 
down from the window. With only a shawl about my 
shoulders I walked three hours in the rain on the long 


156 FABER | 














way to the city; at five in the morning I arrived a 
the house of Kapruner’s mother. Her astonishmen 
was no less than my anxiety and helplessness. I re 
lated what had passed; she listened to me earnestly i1 
silence. Then, after a while she told me that her sor! 
had been unable to feel secure in his late asylum any 
longer; the military authorities had intended to seiz 
his person; two days before he had fled the country 
she had been in the greatest anxiety up to two hour: 
ago, wondering whether he had been able to pass the 
Swiss border; at midnight she had finally received the 
soothing news through a friend who had been taker 
into their confidence. I became silent and brooded 
Surely my situation was strange enough. Here I wa: 
in the house of the mother of a man for whom I hac 
just thrown away everything that means existence 
and future to a young girl—family ties, feelings of 
kinship, even what, according to middle-class standards, 
is called honour. And I did not even know whether 
this man was disposed to accept the sacrifice I brought 
him in my outburst of emotion, and was without 
means, without experience, without plans of action— 
what was to become of me? I dared not even stay in 
the house of Frau Kapruner; it would give my people 
no difficulty to trace me thither; weeks might elapse 
before Kapruner learned of my adventurous step and 
his reply came, because the utmost care had to be exer- 


FABER 157 


cised in written communication with him; whither, in 
the meantime, was I to go? I was not even certain 
xf him; that is to say, my inner voice encouraged me, 
und even his voice spoke to me and approved what I 
aad done, but I felt ashamed before this woman, to 
whom I had probably exposed myself too naively and 
inreservedly in the first rush of my feelings. Cer- 
ainly I noticed that he had told her about me and in 
uch a manner that I had no reason to tax myself 
vith being importunate; her look scrutinized me to 
he very bone; she caught up my every look and 
‘very movement and tried to fit them into a picture 


bi me. I did not feel at ease with her and I could 





levelop no emotion for her. She might have been in 
he middle fifties and had once been beautiful; her 
face still bore traces of it, but she had eyes deeply 
















faced, which always affrights me, and a sort of reti- 
ence which numbed me. In order not to delay too 
ong with all this, lest I do not complete my story by 
lawn, I will say that I lodged the next few days in 
. pension for strangers; there I telegraphed a request 
or money to a cousin of my father who had always 
hown me goodwill, asking for rather a large sum, 
vhich I replaced a year later from out my mother’s 
sgacy. Then I travelled into the border city, whither 
‘rau Kapruner also came, and where I received the 
ırst news from Henry. This was just as I had un- 


158 FABER 


consciously thought it would be, in spite of all my 
fears, and as it should have been if what I had done 
had been based on truth. He told me that he had 
written me before his departure; that he had offered 
me what I had peremptorily taken; that he regarded 
me as his friend, his sister, his wife and well knew 
what he took thereby upon himself: A greater duty 
toward the world and a debt that he could never repay, 
for he had never expected his hard fate to be softened 
by a ray of happiness, whereas now all at once it came 
to him in profusion. But I, too, was not to deceive 
myself about what I undertook to do; the course that 
he took offered his companion no joy or comfort, 
hardly any rest, and it was a question whether the 
great blocks that he pushed before him might not one 
day slip back and crush him. He wrote me almost 





daily now and every letter made me marvel at him the 
more—at his courageous soul, his inexpressible strug: 
gling, and what a friendly attitude he had toward all 
men and how with childlike confidence he believed in 
their goodness of heart. Three months passed and ] 
could go to him and after three more months we mar- 
ried. His mother came to live with us. It had nevet 
occurred to him to leave her alone and to live with 
out her, nor had such a possibility existed for her. | 


“About this time Kapruner was engaged on a greal 





work entitled ‘Villeinage and Ownership in State and 


FABER 159 


Society.’ It was to present his view of the world and 
the sum total of knowledge that had matured in him. 
He used his evening hours and for the most part also 
those of the night for this purpose; he needed only 
little sleep; his day was occupied with personal activi- 
ties. He won more and more repute; his ideas spread 
and found adherents in all countries. Men came to 
nim; they wanted to see him and hear him; they 
drought messages, letters, resolutions, secret commis- 
sions. There resulted meetings, discussions, confer- 
ances, a widely disseminated correspondence, an infor- 
mation service, the preparation of manifestoes and the 
dpening of relations with the ends of the earth. We 
ived in three fairly large rooms some distance out of 
the city; his mother had smaller quarters for herself 
mn the floor above. Often we did not have room 
enough for the numbers of guests and those who came 
ate had to wait until others had departed. There 
ame journalists, authors, legislators, philanthropists, 
yacifists, fugitives, deserters, and mediators from all 
tations. Among these were people whose duplicity 
was apparent, men who had betrayal written on their 
foreheads and whose very greeting was deceitful; also 
the curious, the gossips, and those pretending to be 
mportant, as well as those who waited to see what 
side the scales would favour so that they might be safe 
ind bring their sheep into the fold; then there came 





| E 


160 FABER 


gloomy fanatics, people who preached an eye for an 
eye and a tooth for a tooth, for whom things were not 
yet bloody enough and who did not want to leave one 
stone on another, and then those who made a business 
of mending the world’s ills and wanted to make their 
fortune out of the catastrophe—what faces, what an 
atmosphere of deceit and trickery and illusion! The 
few noble men and women were practically smothered 
by this unclean mass. Among all these was none, male 
or female, of Kapruner’s stamp, so modest and patient 
and glowing with his gospel. I was often torn by 
fear and anxiety and spoke of my fear, for there was 
always an hour when we could be alone. But he ad- 
monished me to think more liberally and to keep the: 
whole idea in view; we were not there to change. 
humankind, nor could this be done; we could merely 
direct them and reinforce their will. He refused to: 


take precautions and discriminations into considera- 









tion, although he was under no illusion about the way 
the questionable element increased in greediness around 
him. Every great idea, he said, had its camp-fol- 
lowers; the denser the morning mist, the more beau- 
tifully the sun breaks through. As his importance 
grew and his message began to awaken a stronger: 
response, his disciples and sympathizers urged him to 
appear among them as their leader when the time was 
ripe, and this they expected soon; they felt that he 


FABER 161 


must realize in action what his mind had conceived. 
This he did not wish to do; he told them that it was 
disastrous when a man like himself overstepped the 
limitations Nature had laid down for him; such action 
would turn good to ill. It was neither in his ability 
nor in his nature; the thought was one thing, the 
deed another. “All the same, I am not lost to you as 
a martyr,’ he once cried laughingly, and I recall how 
a chill passed over me at his words. On such occa- 
sions he showed a charming goodness and consider- 
ateness and to me his character appeared like a piece 
of precious metal that does not lose any of its lustre 
by the grasping of dirty hands. Such a human being 
exerts a power, a constant magnetic spell if it may be 
so called, and his presence alone is sufficient to lighten 
the burden of life and make one face its tasks more 
courageously. But very few understood this. After 
I knew of his public declaration and denial a great 
weight was taken from my heart, the more so because 
I had been unable to speak on my own behalf lest it 
appear that I wanted to keep him for myself and tie 
him in my chains. Our bond was not built on that; 
we were united under a higher law. But there were 
other chains. Although it is very hard for me I will 





now tell you how, nevertheless, he was drawn in 
against his conviction and his deeper knowledge and 


} 


feeling, and pulled down into the burning pit, in which 


| 
| 
| 
| 


162 FABER 


he was destroyed. It is hard to speak of it and to 
disclose it in detail; there is a great deal of mystery 
about it and much that had better not be brought to 
the light of day. But perhaps it must be and in a 
way I can even make things clear to myself by 
doing so. 

“I believe there are marriages in which husband 
and wife become a unit without giving each other 
more than themselves and the existence that they lead 
in the world; I mean without a certain groping for 
understanding and agreement and without the need 
and the demand for continuous association—becoming 
unified solely through the duties and tasks of every 
day. I have already mentioned that the peculiar sort 
of life that we led rarely permitted us to come to- 
gether in peace. Kapruner divided his time between 
his work and the people; he knew absolutely nothing 
about economizing. I helped him as much as I could 
and the months simply flew by us. Only the fact 
that we knew we were one gave us security. The 
only person to whom he daily devoted definite hours 
was his mother. She expected and demanded this. 
It had long been the rule with him, and aside from 
the fact that it was likewise his habit and his wish 
he did not dare to give it up. She had the greatest, 
influence on him, but I was never wholly able to 
visualize and discover the exact nature of this influ-. 


| 
I 


FABER 163 


ence. He treated her with consideration and rever- 
ence as if she were a divine being. He sought her 
advice in all difficult matters and attempted nothing 
without her acquiescence. He never contradicted her 
and she was clever enough never to let serious differ- 
ences of opinion and conflicts arise, and I often came 
to the strange thought that by this action of not merely 
not hindering him in his well-defined career, but sup- 
porting him and urging him on, she had, in her deep 
knowledge of his nature, instilled a feeling of obedi- 
ence and gratitude in him, which he felt he had to 
discharge in everything else that touched his life. It 
certainly was a peculiar relationship, which constantly 
kept me vacillating between amazement and an uncer- 
‘tain fear. From the beginning she acted peculiarly 


passive toward me. It seemed as if she took me as a 


“matter of course and that, having become convinced of 
| my tractability, she probably told herself that I was 
the most desirable comrade for him and the least dan- 
| gerous daughter-in-law for her. It happened that I 
became pregnant in the second year of our marriage, 
| and from that time on the conduct of this woman 


toward me changed. She showed an enmity that ter- 


| 
| 


tified me. First she was mysterious and silent in her 
reserved manner, then blunt and provocative. I could 
‘no longer please her. I was suddenly in her way. 





She criticized my management, my attitude, my courtly 


| 
| 


| 


164 FABER 


manners, as she called them; everything I did was 
wrong in her eyes, and she discounted everything I 
said. I often noticed that her eyes followed me with 
deep hatred and this caused me an uncanny feeling. 
I actually fled to Kapruner; he tried to calm me and 
attempted to explain the conduct of his mother as a 
passing mood and mental disturbance, but his explana- 
tions and consolations had a disheartened note which 
frightened me still more. He showed me the gentlest 
consideration during this time, took care to have me 
spare myself, and read every wish in my eyes; but 
even this began to torment me, for I told myself 
that this would probably cause the woman to regard 
me with bitter jealousy. I was robbing her of hours 
that Henry had formerly given her; I was making 
more demands on him than before, although uninten- 
tionally, and I felt that she would hold this against 
me. I told Henry of my thoughts, but he looked at 
me earnestly and shook his head. What was the trou- 
ble? Perhaps she feared an increase in our family 
because of our rather meagre means. Perhaps she had 
not taken this into consideration and now made me 
responsible for increasing the burden of life. But 
that was not the reason, at least that did not offer a 
solution. At the beginning of winter I became seri- 
ously ill. It was the illness which I had not yet over- 
come three years later and which affected me most 


FABER 165 


seriously at the time when the Princess brought me 
here. The attack was sudden and continuous even 
then and became so severe that I had to be taken to 
a sanatorium. Kapruner did not leave my bedside for 
many days; he himself nursed me and would see no 
one except the physician. One night when I was suf- 
fering from a high fever and was almost unconscious 
the door opened and his mother entered. I seemed 
to see Henry turn dreadfully pale and then I heard them 
whispering together. Suddenly the old woman came 
to my bed and looked at me. I had closed my eyes. 
It seemed to me as if her look hurled me into a pit; 
something disastrous happened to me; I had never 
before experienced a similar feeling of fear. In the 
midst of my fear and my fever I suddenly divined what 
went on in the mind of this woman; I did not guess 
it, I simply saw it as one sees a picture. The physi- 
cians had exerted themselves to save the child and 
there had been hope of this up to this night; one hour 
after this woman had departed all hope was gone. 
Perhaps she killed the little being in me with her eyes. 
And this was the situation: She did not want a second 
being to come between her and her son; she feared 
that more than anything else in the world. She alone 
hhad possessed him for thirty-six years and she could 
not bear to share still more of him, to give up more 
of him, to lose more of him. Possessed—it would be 





166 “FABER 


impossible to use any other word; she had possessed 
him; he was her beginning and end, the object of all 
her thoughts, her light, her life, her everything; she 
understood nothing but him, she knew nothing but 
him, she felt only for him; to her all othef beings 
were like stones, like shadows. This dawned on me 
first as a presentiment; later when I spoke with 
Kapruner about it and he in his desperation admitted 
and verified it step by step I recognized the whole 
extent of the disaster that still hung threateningly 
over me. I learned from his reluctant words that she 
had saved him, her son, for herself out of a marriage 
with a vicious man after cruel fighting and years of 
persecution; that she had lifted herself out of the 
deepest poverty with a giant’s will-power, all for him; 
that she had actually carried him through childhood 
and youth with a gentleness and a dumb, ever-watchful 
fear of need, illness, human beings, and life itself, that 
even if he had been a heartless idiot he would have 
been filled with utter amazement. Thus he spoke, and 
thus he explained it to me, and I believed it, I knew it. 
But what was to become of me? How could our life 
together develop under these conditions? The actuality 
surpassed my very worst fears. The woman no longer | 
showed any reticence. Perhaps she had deluded her- | 
self with the expectation that the relations between 
Henry and myself would grow cold in time, and that 





FABER® 167 


he wouJd then return to her the more willingly, wiser 
and robbed of his illusions. When this proved not to 
be the case and she saw that Henry, on the contrary, 
drew even closer to me and tried in every way to 
make me forget my disappointment at the loss of the 
child. Satanic instincts seemed to develop in her and 
‚she found no means too base for undermining my 
‘position and sowing discord. I will not go back to 
lose myself in such petty and common matters; the 
ugly innuendoes, the suspicions, the malevolent distor- 
‘tion of my words, the insults she cast on my descent, 
using the term ‘aristocrat’ as if it were an expletive; 
‘the manner in which she belittled my flight from the 
‘home of my relatives; how every act met with spiteful 
‘criticism; how she cast suspicion on my steps, my 
smiles, my weeping, my perplexity, my despair; how 
she disparaged me before others, sneered at my awk- 
-wardness in the household, stamped me as a spend- 
‘thrift and exaggerated every mistake and every false 
step. And how Henry tolerated this and then again 
rose up against it; how he tried to appease me and to 
bring her to a reconciliation, and how, when driven 
into a corner he neither could nor desired to turn 
right or left—why call this in detail out of the memory 
that has been so glad to forget it? I will merely 
say this much, that I felt as if I were damned in hell 
and that I determined to make an end of it. An in- 


168 FABER 


significant incident brought about a crisis: I had for- 
gotten one day to write an important letter that Henry 
had dictated to me; a large number of people had been 
present and in the difficulty I had mislaid the original. 
When Henry asked me about this in the presence of 
his mother I admitted it shamefacedly; the woman 
came at me as she would at a servant caught in the 
act of stealing; Henry tried gently to calm her and 
plead with her for moderation; grumbling she left the 
room. Indignation closed my mouth; I did not reply 
to Henry’s attempts to appease me; justice and under- 
standing seemed to me to be the least at stake here. 
I went into my bedroom, packed up my belongings in 
a hurry, returned to him and said that I intended to 
leave the house. He looked at me speechlessly. ‘How 
does force and oppression operate in our case, Henry ?’ 
I asked him. ‘Is a man permitted to carry his love 
so far that he drives the other into slavery? Does 
love give one a right to hold others in bondage? And 
if a son has been forfeited to his mother for all eternity, 
is his companion then also to be delivered up without 
protection? How is that compatible with your views 
and with your life?’ I was very calm when I asked 
him this and I saw in his face the fight that went 
on within him. He gazed at me sadly and after a 
while replied that he was well aware that we three 
could not longer abide under the same roof and there- 





FABER 169 


fore he would make no attempt to persuade me to do 
so. He proposed that I should take lodgings for a 
time with friends and gave me the names and address 
of these friends; in the meantime he would try to 
_ clear the matter up in his own mind and prepare his 
mother for separation from him, for there could be 
no possible doubt in his mind that he belonged to me 
and he hoped that I agreed with him. He then ac- 
companied me to his friends, whom I knew only su- 
perficially, and we talked about the future and how 
we would arrange matters from now on. But every- 
thing came about very differently from the way he 
had plain lodgings with a married pair who lived in 
had said and planned. He came on the third day; I 
a Bohemian fashion; I felt as if I had been disowned. 
He did not speak again of his promises and there was 
something disturbed in his manner coupled with timid- 
ity and consciousness of guilt; he left hastily after he 
had been with me for an hour. On the same day he 
wrote me a letter full of protestations that he missed 
me, that no outside influence, no power on earth could 
tear us asunder, that I was the only person indispensa- 
ble to him spiritually and mentally, but that the course 
of action which I had put before him and which he 
himself had decided on meant a complete rupture with 
his mother, with the result that he would not only lose 
her but that, as he very well knew, she would be con- 


170 FABER 


demned to despair and destruction. So he felt it but 
natural and pardonable if he asked me for time; he 
could not act precipitately and keep a clear conscience. 
I asked myself: Why does he write me this? Does 
he lack courage to tell me eye to eye of his wavering 
and weakening? He came again, he came daily, but 
it was a torture for me and a torture for him, in- 
creasing with every visit. Each time he was more 
excited, more passionate, more crushed, and more dis- 
tracted. His state of mind drove him from his mother 
to me, from me to his mother. He said I was unjust 
to charge him with weakness of character, strength 
was a relative matter and the strength of that woman 
was tremendous and could hardly be estimated by an 
ordinary man. I could not controvert this by any- 
thing similar, no such obscure telepathy, and as I 
perceived that this man, who was more dear to me 
than anything, was being destroyed and poisoned by 
this, that he would be completely lost in his confusion 
between two persons to whom he felt himself equally 
bound, I decided to abandon everything and to dis- 
appear from the scene. I put my passports in order 
and without having notified him or any one left for 
Germany. I need not name the city, for I cannot bear 
to have the name pass my lips, can hardly think 
of it, for to me it is a place where fire and brimstone 
comes down from the sky and men turn into fiends. 





FABER 171 


For two, three months I lived in the most restricted 
circumstances, for I had very little money. I had suc- 
ceeded in renting a studio, the former owner of which 
had left for a year. I noticed nothing of what went 
on around me and gave no attention to world affairs. 
I was completely buried in myself. The war had 
ended long ago and I noticed as if in my sleep that 
‘revolt was brewing everywhere; often when I went 
out I heard disturbances, distant shooting, and saw 
inflamed or frightened faces, and men dashed across 
the noisy pavements at night, but I spoke with no 
‘one and read no newspaper. To be so alone is possible 
only in a great city. 

_ “One evening there is a knock on the door of the 
‘anteroom; I become frightened, call out and open, and 
Henry stands before me. He pulls me back into the 
‘room, embraces me, falls down at my feet, . presses 
his head into my lap and sobs. For God’s sake, what 
‘has happened? How changed he looks: tired, his fea- 
tures jaded, his eyes flaming feverishly! What has 
happened? He saw me on the street yesterday, fol- 
lowed me, did not dare to come to me at once. It is 
dangerous for me to go to any one, highly dangerous 
for him, he groans. ‘How do you happen to be here?’ 
Task. He has been here for many weeks. He has 
united with the rebels and become one of their leaders; 
they are now surrounded, a part of them captured, 


172 FABER 


a part outlawed; the dream of apostolic leadership and 
a change for humanity has ended and the awakening 
is filled with horror. Why did you do that, Henry, 

you—desert your colours, turn against your best con- 

victions? He had not been himself after my flight, he 

had been unable to be himself any longer; then he 

had first felt and discovered what I had been to him, 
and as if to justify himself against an overwhelming 

fate he had gone into the fight to prove himself by 

deed, to harden and cleanse himself or to go down 

in it and thus make atonement. My departure had 
also seemed to him a challenge to put his case before 

a higher court and thus submit to a verdict from God. 
And thus he had been crushed. But what next, 
I ask him, what next? Before he can answer I hear 
the tread of men on the stairs and then some one 
pounds on the door with full force. “There they are,” E 
said Kapruner. “Open, there is nothing else to be 
done, they are on my track.” As I move to do so he 
grasps my arm and says there is but one person who. 
may be able to save him; and he gives me the name 
of the Princess. I had told him once that she w 
a blood relation of mine. She was in the city, he said 
—lived in the cloister of the Ursulines and had wo 
repute through widely extended personal service fo 
many years, so that her word had weight with 
parties. The tumult almost drowned out his last wor 


7 








FABER 173 


and as I turn to the door of the room and open it they 
smash the outer door to bits. Five or six soldiers 
with steel helmets and guns break in, sinister and dis- 
orderly, followed by a lieutenant, a smart young fel- 
low, and just behind him another man who seems to 
be a higher officer but wears a sports costume and 
carries a riding whip in his boots. ‘Handcuffs!’ yells 
the lieutenant. The man in the sports costume walks 
up to Kapruner and asks him who he is. He gives 
his name, whereupon the man pulls out his riding 
whip and hits him in the face. I cry out; the man 
turns to me, he seems surprised, seems to know me 
and to recognize me; I also feel that I have seen him 
before but do not recall him. The more he looks at 
me the more sure he seems of himself; naturally my 
marriage had become a scandal and an ineradicable 
shame for my family. As I stretch out my arms 
pleadingly, pleading for Henry in my lack of suspicion 
the lieutenant gives an order to one of the soldiers; 
he comes toward me, obviously to take me into cus- 


tody, but the other officer waves him aside, approaches 


me and with an expression of cold contempt says with 








a snarl that I must leave quickly and see to it that I 
am not met again; he spares me because of my father, 
whose name I have borne. Henry looks fixedly at me; 
the mission he gave me sets me in motion; I push my 
way through the people, fly down the stairs, past a 


174 FABER 


sentinel who looks at me in confusion and moves as 
if to raise his gun, and out on the street and into the 
night. I run aimlessly in all directions. An automo- 
bile crosses my path; I hail it, jump in, give the name 
of the cloister and in a quarter of an hour am lying 
on my knees before the Princess. I can no longer 
tell how I reached her, who led me to her, what I 
told the women and whether she was already in bed. 
She sees me, hears me, and it seems as if we have 
been together only the day before. She knows about 
me, she knows about Kapruner, she knows of my fate; 
it is not necessary to lose time in talk, for her whole 
personality tells me that every second is costly. We 
are back in the carriage. We drive into a barracks. 
No one is able to give us information. It is past mid- 
night and difficult to get any reports. We drive into 
another barracks; into a third; we go to the police 
headquarters, to the palace of justice, to the ministry 
of war, with no result. Excited men everywhere, 
nothing else. As we drive farther and farther, up one 
street, down another, the Princess takes my head in 
her arm; she says nothing, but her breath, her look, 
her touch is like medicine, like something heavenly, 
as if one can stand aloft and look down on one’s own 
suffering and fear and realize that life and death are 
no longer the important things. At three o’clock we 


FABER 175 


meet a column with a colonel at its head, an escort for 
prisoners. The Princess causes a halt; she knows the 
colonel and he greets her respectfully; he names a 
place beyond the city whence many disturbers have 
been taken. Twenty minutes later we are there. It 
is a large, dark court, lighted by a few lanterns. Be- 
fore us is a flat wall where lie thirty or forty corpses. 
Guns stand against another wall. Soldiers walk up 
and down. All step aside as the Princess approaches 
and some salute. She turns to a noncommissioned 
officer. He shakes his head. Another steps up. 
Kapruner? He is probably among those shot. A third 
is better informed; no such honourable death was in 
store for Kapruner. He points to a dark corner where 
a mutilated human body lies, a formless, bloody heap 
of flesh. Only the right hand remains whole. When 
I had sunk down to the ground the Princess knelt down 
beside me, bent over me and kissed my eyes. That 
was the last thing I saw and felt; there was nothing 
more for a long time. It was fortunate that con- 
sciousness left me, for my next breath might well have 


been that of a demented person.” 


Faith became silent. At the last her voice had lost 
all feeling. She now let her head sink low; her lips 
were pressed together and her folded hands lay as if 


176 FABER 


lifeless. Suddenly she moved convulsively and said 
as she smiled absently: “It is late. We must get 
some sleep. Good night.” She rose quickly and left. 

Faber, however, remained sitting at the table for 


more than an hour. 


XIV 


As the following day was Sunday Christopher, upon 
completing the tasks of the morning, repaired to his 
father to take up with him various undecided matters 
on which he had postponed discussion. In fact he 
thought it necessary to clean the slate, because the 
school recess was to end in a few days. First of all 
he wanted to debate the question of the new landlord. 
The house had been sold about two months before to 
a Herr Schadenbach, a dealer in leather, who occupied 
the apartment on the third floor beneath the Fabers 
and for a prolonged period had lived there peaceably 
with his family; however, since the acquisition of his 
new honours, which came as the result of newly ac- 
quired wealth, he had bothered the tenants in all sorts 
of ways and disturbed their equanimity. Now he was 
irritated by the beating of a carpet on one storey, then 
by the playing of a piano on another; then water was 
drawn too wastefully, or some one banged the doors; 
again he found dirt on the doorstep or one of the 
kitchen gods threw various objects out of the kitchen 
windows. In short, he found constant opportunity for 
complaining, and at times his rude voice could be heard 
for half an hour in all the storeys. This irritated 
177, 


178 FABER 


Christopher. Herr Schadenbach stirred his ire almost 
daily. He hated Schadenbach because of his arrogance 
and his yelling. He had often consulted with Faith 
about the matter, but Faith’s views were vacillating; 
she was not certain about the basis of Herr Schaden- 
bach’s encroachment, for encroachment it was, no 
matter how one regarded it. Thus, with his resent- 
ment unappeased, he appeared before his father. 

He meant to find out, first, whether Herr Schaden- 
bach was allowed to start such a disreputable commo- 
tion when it is known that the mere purchase of a 
house gives no one, not even fat and bearded men, 
the right to mistreat the tenants; secondly, he wanted 
to know how Herr Schadenbach could be reached, if 
most people were cowardly enough to allow themselves | 
to be so mistreated. ‘Reached,’ he said, and coming 
from him this was a forceful and illuminating ex- 
pression. And from his father he expected forceful 
and illuminating advice. 

But in this he was disappointed. Faber merely made 
a few general comments of a social-critical nature, 
from which Christopher concluded that his fund of 
experience on this point was not very large. He mani- 
fested merely conventional regret at this disagreeable 
situation, considered for a time with a wrinkled brow 
what was to be done next, and then passed to the next 
of the problems that had been put to him. Namely this: 


FABER 179 


whether an angleworm possessed two souls when cut 
into two parts, in view of the fact that each part moved 
itself independently, or four souls if quartered, or 
whether angleworms possessed no souls at all and this 
explained their careless attitude toward such drastic 
operations? As for the soul, what was a soul? He 
expected his father to explain what a soul really was. 

Faber made a sincere attempt, but with little success. 
Was it possible that human beings possessed souls, and 
not apes? Or, if one conceded souls to apes, why not 
to dogs? Or ants? Or a tree? Or a waterfall? 
Where does the soul begin and where does it manifest 
itself, prove its existence? Was it possible that Herr 
Schadenbach had a soul and the horse in front of the 
cart down below had none? Faber, cross-examined in 
this categorical manner, could do no more than answer 
with a fragment of popular philosophy thousands of 
years old. Christopher could not comprehend this. He 
sighed, walked energetically around the room, and came 
to the third and last subject of his cogitation: Why 
had his mother gone away? Why had she driven away 
with the strange woman when she had a husband and 
child at home? Were women permitted to go away 
in this manner? Was there no law against it? Were 
women then free? As free as men? Could they do 
what they felt like doing, or was it that men did not 
have the courage to tell them sharply what they could 


180 FABER 


and could not do? That was what he wanted to know. 
At these words Faith had entered bringing Faber’s 
breakfast. She smiled almost imperceptibly, caressed 
Christopher’s hair with her fingers in passing, and left 
again. Faber gathered the boy in his arms and pressed 
him to him. He was in the position of a man called 
upon to judge a case in which he is himself the com- 
plainant. The boy seemed to suspect the betrayal 
through kindness that was being practised upon him 
and so resisted the kindness. He looked attentively 
at his father and then distorted his face into a cun- 
ning grimace which gave him a comical resemblance 
to Martina. Faber put him on the sofa beside him 
and tried to divert him by telling stories. He told 
about Malay pirates and Indian temple cities and the 
primeval forests of Ceylon, but absent-mindedly he 
made a few variations, so that Christopher found it 
necessary to correct him. He was not displeased when 
the boy informed him that he had been invited to take 
dinner at his Aunt Clara’s. When Anna Faber came 
later to call for her grandson Eugene closeted him- 
self in his room and announced that he was not in. 
He sat beside Faith at table during dinner. They 
spoke about unimportant matters. After every ques- 
tion and reply came a leaden pause. When he was 
back in his room he tried to read, but could not collect 


| 
his thoughts and put the book aside. At four o’dlock 


FABER 181 


he went to the Hergesell house to call for Christopher, 
according to an agreement with Faith. He did not 
meet his mother there. Clara informed him that of 
late she disappeared for several hours every day: Clara 
suspected her mother had discovered Valentine’s domi- 
cile and was now putting in this time in great secrecy 
with her adored little blackguard, for most of the time 
she returned animated and in good spirits, often, how- 
ever, in a sad and thoughtful mood. “Every day I 
expect to hear of the catastrophe which that boy is 
bound to bring about,” said Clara with her dry mock- 
ery, and a group of parallel lines showing on her fore- 
head; “the thing is getting tiresome and some solution 
or other is to be hoped for. And what is my brother 
doing?” she continued. “I notice he is making himself 
scarce. Martina has gone to England, is the report. 
It seems to me that little Martina is getting very busy.” 
She regarded Eugene from one side with the attitude 
of a cock while combing the hair of her eldest girl. 
She had brought her two children back from the coun- 
try the day before. 

At home Eugene found a telegram from Martina in 
which she announced her arrival in London. He sat 
dull and dissatisfied at the window and watched the 
twilight grow into dusk. He listened to the noises of 
the city, flowing together in a dull roar; the peal of 
bells, the rattle of wheels, voices, and footsteps. Chris- 


182 FABER 


topher came and wished him good night. He looked 
searchingly at his father, but this time suppressed his 
inquiries. Not until Faith called him in to dine did 
Faber rise. She left him alone during the meal. Later 
she cleared the table in silence and at nine o’clock asked 
him whether he wanted anything, while she remained 
standing in the doorway. He said “No,” stopped, and 
then half against his will the request for her to sit 
down with him escaped him, for the whole day had 
been so odious for him. 

She said nothing in reply, but a few minutes later 
came with her sewing—linen for Christopher which 
needed mending. She sat down at the long side of 
the table, just under the lamp, and placed thread, scis- 
sors, and pieces of cloth before her. She wore the 
black dress of the day before and a fresh white apron, 
and about her neck was a black band from which hung 
a black medallion with a tiny pearl. 

Faber contemplated the hand moving up and down 
like a machine while sewing. As yesterday this hand 
aroused his curiosity as if it were in itself a being that 
challenged his desire. 

He spoke about Christopher and his impertinent way 
of calling people to account and everywhere observing 
all rules to the letter. If he continued to butt his head 
against the world in this way he would soon be covered 


with wounds. 


FABER 183 


Faith concurred. She thought an only child was 
always in danger of overdoing whatever he attempted. 
He should have brother or sister; she thought this 
would be good for him. 

Yes, doubtless that would be good for him, admitted 
Faber. He then inquired whether the boy had also 
asked Faith the questions about his mother and her 
departure. When Faith nodded he wanted to know 
what she had answered. In fact, how was one to an- 
swer him? He had to confess that he was left in the 
utmost confusion. For that reason he was poorly 
fitted to rear children; he lacked presence of mind, 
something that an educator needs above all things. 

Faith replied that he had naturally also cross-ex- 
amined her, in fact again before going to sleep; the 
matter seemed to occupy him a great deal. She had 
told him that he could pass judgment on his mother 
only when he was capable of understanding her actions, 
and to do that he must acquire experience and culti- 
vate his mind. Then she had to make him under- 
stand what she meant by cultivating his mind; this had 
proved rather difficult. But she had succeeded in mak- 
ing him reflect. 

About Faber’s expressive mouth came lines that 
might signify all sorts of things: agreement, boredom, 
disgust, even irony. He rose, went to the window, sat 
down again, rose again, went to the stove, then seated 


184 FABER 


himself in a chair that stood some distance from the 
table, crossed his knees, and passed his hand over his 
forehead. 

Faith sewed calmly on and did not seem to notice 
his nervousness. She took the thread in her mouth 
and bit it off, at which her beautiful teeth, slightly 
too large, became visible. She asked whether he had a 
headache. 

Not exactly a headache, he replied, but his head was 
dull. The day had been filled with humidity; this dis- 
agreed with him. Even now the air outside was like 
that of an oven. 

He rose again, stepped to the window, opened it, 
and looked out. While his back was turned Faith’s 
face bore an expression of deep reflection. When he 
turned it again seemed wholly indifferent. 

“Over yonder,” he said, “where the moonlight seeps 
through, there is still a thick, fibrous cloud of mist.” 
He closed the window. 

“Are you then so sensitive to atmospheric influ- 
ences?” inquired Faith. “Whoever is not hardened 
to them has much to suffer.” 

“It differs,’ Faber replied, while pacing back and 
forth behind Faith’s chair, “and is determined by the 
seasons. I give less attention to it in the spring than 


in the fall. Nevertheless, a day like this one is a 
horror from beginning to end. On a day like this” 


| 
| 


FABER 185 


one should go to bed and not let it become a part of 
one’s consciousness.” 

Upon: noticing that it made her uncomfortable to 
have him at her back he passed to the other side of 
the table and there continued his walk. Finally he 
again sat down in the chair opposite her, again watched 
her busy hand and asked after a time: “What are you 
mending? A shirt? It has been mended a great deal.” 

“Naturally. What is to be done? The lad tears a 
great many,” sighed Faith. 

“Has he ever seen the Princess?” Faber asked sud- 
denly, somewhat timidly, nodding his head in Chris- 
topher’s direction. He cleared his throat noticeably, 
as if it pained him to ask the question. 

“Surely, several times already,” said Faith, As she 
moved to pick up the scissors they fell out of her hand. 
‘Faber sprang forward and picked them up from the 
carpet. Faith had also bent down and her hair touched 
his cheek. “Thank you,” she said amiably. 

Faber listened for a noise in the hall. “Did not the 
telephone ring?” he asked. 

Faith raised her head and listened likewise. “No,” 
she said. Her glance struck his forehead, which ap- 
peared to be full in the light. She observed that he 
had a very attractive forehead, strong, angular, with 
temples arched inward and of a feminine fineness. She 


turned away immediately. 


186 FABER 


“I often have hallucinations in my hearing, espe- 
cially with regard to the telephone,” said Faber, dis- 
contentedly. Then after a pause: “The first night it 
rang twice. It was already past midnight and yet 
some one had to confer with Martina.” He laughed 
sharply and uneasily. It was also not quite clear why 
he spoke about it. 

Suddenly Faith asked in a casual tone and yet as if 
she meant to put an end to this unnatural tension: “Did 
Martina ever write you where and how she met the 
Princess for the first time?” 

She threw a lightning glance at him to gauge the 
effect the question had on him, whether he would dis- 
cuss it more in detail and whether she was affecting 
him agreeably or not. There was a sort of tricky ex- 
pectancy in her face, but she knew well how to con- 
ceal it. 

He seemed surprised, but would not let it be noticed. 
Affecting a casual tone, he replied that he remembered 
the letter, but thought that Martina had limited herself 
to a mere superficial description. He had not remem- 
bered the details, he recalled merely that they had met 
by accident at a railway station. 

Although this remark had a casual ring his voice 
betrayed that he would be very loath to drop this sub- 
ject again. Despite this he acted as if his interest was 


FABER 187 


aroused by a little yellow moth flitting about the lamp, 
and he even tried to catch it. 

“Shall I tell you how it happened?” asked Faith. 
“Perhaps that will give you something.” 

“Please do, if it is not difficult for you,” he replied. 
He rested his elbows on the table and his head in his 
hands, as one who prepares for news that is arresting 
but not unusually important. 

Then Faith, at times interrupting her sewing, told 
the following story: 


Martina had been on an outing with Christopher. 
It was in the wooded region; Faith could not name 
the place, but knew that one had to pass several sta- 
tions on the train. It was a holiday. Upon their 
return in the evening there was a restless mob in the 
station, for half the city had visited the country that 
day. Likewise a thunderstorm burst the moment she 
descended from the train with her child; the people 
crowded around her and no one wanted to leave the 
station. While she held the boy firmly by the hand 
and pushed forward step by step the compact mass sud- 
denly opened and she observed a group of people in a 
circle, and in the middle of the circle a dignified, beau- 
tiful, old woman whose manner and face immediately 
interested her to the utmost. Round about her are 


188 FABER 


children, ten or twelve girls, whom she is bidding good- 
by, speaking to each in a calm, matronly fashion, un- 
usually mild and amiable. It seems she is comforting 
them, or encouraging them, or giving them words of 
advice. Captivated by the appearance and the per- 
sonality of the woman, Martina suddenly discovers 
that Christopher is no longer at her side. She tries 
to go back, but the wall of people bars her path; she 
begs that they give her room; overpowered by fear she 
becomes faint and falls. At that moment the woman 
comes to her, asks questions, calms her, becomes con- 
cerned about her, and as she moves forward with 
Martina on her arm the people, who up to that time 
have been so dumb and obstinate, draw back respect- 
fully before every step, as if forced to give way by 
an invisible arm that possessed occult powers. A nar- 
row lane forms and they pass through; then they 
observe Christopher, who is sitting on a cement jar 
and staring fixedly up at the glass vault of the sta- 
tion, on which the lightning flashes and the rain beats 
down. Then the Princess brought Martina home in 
her carriage. She remained with her until late at night. 

“When she left,” said Faith in conclusion, “she had 


discovered more about Martina’s carefully guarded in- 


ner self than any other person, no matter how intimate, 


had done in years.” 


a” 


FABER 189 


“H’m,” said Faber. 

“And it was a critical moment for Martina,” Faith 
added; “a turning point, so to speak.” 

“So?” said Faber, laconically. Then somewhat 
more tensely, while knitting his brows: “How so? 
How a turning point? You mean the acquaintance 
with the Princess? Naturally, that was a turning point. 
I know that, unfortunately.” 

“I don’t mean exactly that,” Faith replied softly. 
“You misunderstand me. ‘This does not concern the 
Princess.” 

He was startled, but ostensibly did not wish to ap- 
pear curious and therefore remained silent. Perhaps 
he could not reconcile it with his pride; perhaps it 
irritated him to admit that Faith, who was, after all, 
a stranger in his eyes, knew more than he, who ought 
‘to have known everything about Martina; in short, he 
‘said nothing and again turned his attention to the 
tireless little moth. After a while he said, trying to 
assume a careless tone: “It would be good if we raised 
the window a bit, don’t you think?” 

“I have no objection,’ replied Faith. 

He raised the window and for a change walked sev- 
eral times around the table, with his right hand in 
his pocket and clicking his keys. A petulant irritation 
became more evident with every movement. 


190 FABER 


“Do sit down,” Faith addressed him. “There is 
actually no calmness in you.” 

He obeyed, stared at her for a while, and said 
“That medallion you have around your neck is very 
pretty. Where did it come from?” 

Probably he wanted to say something entirely dif- 
ferent, for he did not even listen when Faith told 
him that it came from her mother. 

“You must remember,” he began suddenly, bending 
animatedly over the table and extending his index fin- 
ger, “that Martina was always a wholly unsocial being. 
The other half, which runs around outside and pur- 
sues its daily tasks, was so far removed from her that 
she saw it only in caricature with all sorts of silly and 
comical distortions. Her imagination could make noth- 
ing of anonymous suffering. She did not have in her a 
trace of a leaning in that direction. It would have 
seemed the most absurd thing in the world to her to 
be credited with that. And so it appeared to me—as 
absurd as if we asked that moth up there to draw a 
wheelbarrow.” 

He threw a searching and mistrustful glance at 
Faith. When she nodded in acquiescence he continued: 
“A single incident, a catastrophe in which she had a 
part, moved her, naturally. And very severely, so that 
her whole organism was thereby thrown out of order. 
Instinctively she then tried to protect herself against it. 


BPABLR! ° 191 


When occasionally she experienced a disagreeable or 
merely unpleasant dream she was in a sensitive and 
depressed condition for a long time thereafter, and I 
had to comfort her exactly as if the dream had in- 
sulted her. Yes, that is how it was; she felt insulted 
when she had a bad dream. I often made fun of this 
characteristic. She was so constituted that she could 
grasp only beautiful things, and when she wept it was 
mostly only when something unexpectedly beautiful 
happened to her.” 












Faith nodded again, becoming cheerful and almost 
contented. This dissection of Martina’s character 
seemed to give her a great deal of pleasure. Moreover, 
she had a way of listening which increased the self- 
possession of the speaker and made him seem clever 
ind stimulating in his own eyes. 

“I remember, for instance,” continued F aber, “that 
once in the fall we undertook an outing in the moun- 
ains. It was in south Tyrol. We came down from 
the Valsugana toward evening; the broad valley with 
ts vineyards and the stream—I think it was the Brenta 
—lay bathed in the crimson flood of sunset; in our rap- 
ure we lost our way and came unexpectedly into a 
yark where the roses were as thick as strawberries in 
ı clearing. An old Italian gardener came toward us, 
sreeted us in the solemn and sincere manner of these 
‚eople, and led us through beautiful avenues; finally 


192 FABER 


we reached a bosk, which appeared like a burst of 
flame of a hundred colours. We had never seen any- 
thing like it. Suddenly Martina threw her arms around 
me and wept for joy and bliss.” 

He halted for a few seconds as if he could not re- 
linquish this picture out of the past. Then he con- 
tinued: “So you see. There you have the proof. A 
piece of music could affect her in the same way, or a 
picture; on the other hand she never wept at human 
suffering. Above all she would get cold, even to a 
physical chill, and sometimes she would even be im- 
pelled by an irresistible desire to laugh. Asa child she 
was always compelled to laugh when a hearse with its 
horses draped in black passed by. Strange, isn’t it?! 
She told me that her father had an assistant or a pupil 
who suffered from epilepsy; one day when Martina was 
in the studio he fell from the scaffold and writhed in a 
cramp; although she lost her breath in terror she 
broke out into laughter. Later she felt ashamed and 
could look no one in the eye. For months she had a 
horror of the studio and would not enter it, but when 
some one mentioned the epileptic she had to laugh.” 

“T can well imagine that; I can actually see her,” 
said Faith. 

“T have always explained it to myself,” declared 
Faber, with naive profundity, “by the fact that the 
tragic and abnormal things in life were diametrically 


FABER 193 


the opposite of her own make-up. Pardon me if I ex- 
press myself in such learned and circumstantial terms, 
but I would like to define this accurately. Therefore 
her nature unconsciously defends itself against horrible 
impressions and defends itself with the most extreme 
methods. I could say a great deal more about it; I 
could produce many proofs of the accuracy of my 
views, but that is not necessary for you. From all 
this you can picture to yourself how I felt when she 
wrote me for the first time about her activities with 
the Princess. I felt as if I had fallen from the clouds. 
I could not get into my head the idea that Martina 
not only seeks but actually finds happiness and salva- 
tion for her soul in helping children. And I never 
will be able to understand it. You must credit me 
with that.’ 

“Who tells you that?” asked Faith, quickly raising 
her eyes to his and looking at him in amazement. 
“How do you assume that she seeks happiness and 
salvation for her soul in her work for the Princess? 
That is absolutely false.” 

“In how far is that false?” murmured Faber, aston- 
ished. “Then what is the right view? What else does 
she seek there? What other satisfaction can she gain 
thereby ?” 

“So you seriously held the view up to now that Mar- 
tina joined the mission out of sympathy or a common 


194 FABER 


love for humanity? or because of the idea? I must 
admit that I hear this with consternation. You have, 
as it happens, fallen into a strange error. No trace 
of that; Martina wanted a profession. That seemed 
unavoidably necessary for her existence.” 

“A profession?’ stammered Faber, touched to the 
quick. “In what way? And why?” 

“In order to become independent.’ 

“Independent? Independent of whom? Of me?” 

“Perhaps. In order to have free disposition of her 
own self in a material or any other way, in the event 
this was necessary. This, after all, is extremely 
simple.” 

Faber stared at her with an expression hovering be- 
tween a smile and a laugh, with his mouth open; an 
expression of disbelief, mockery, and anger. 

Faith did not seem to notice this. “What she needed 
for that naturally was a woman like the Princess,” 
she continued, “and tasks such as the Princess could 
give her. She had to be present with her whole heart, 
grasp a situation with confidence, and reach the con- 
viction that she was useful, that she performed what 
no one else was able to do and that inwardly she felt 
herself rewarded.” 

“Halt, halt, pardon me,” Faber interrupted impa- 
tiently. “Precisely at the time Martina became ac- 
quainted with the Princess she was plentifully supplied 


FABER 195 


with money. Before that circumstances were rather 
strained; I know that, I don’t contradict that. But 
just at that time she had sold her father’s sculpture. 
The purchaser even paid in American exchange. He 
paid $6,000. You must admit therefore that there can 
be no talk of want.” 

Faith smiled with a quiet bitterness. “But I did 
not speak of want,” she said. “It is strange with 
what hardihood you misunderstand me. It was not a 
matter of overcoming a temporary difficulty. It was a 
matter of carrying on a self-sufficient existence.” 

“A self-sufficient existence? Yes, but how? Listen, 
that is folly.” Faber laughed out loud, but it had a 
forced sound. “Martina and a self-sufficient existence! 
What an insane notion! Why, then? Why should she 
long for that? This runs wholly contrary to her char- 
acter, and her mode of thought. What would be the 
object?” He folded his arms and shook his head with 
superior assurance. 

Faith did not reply. She wrinkled her forehead and 
resumed her sewing. Thereupon Faber said icily: 
“Likewise I did not know that the work in the Chil- 
dren’s City is connected with a fixed income. In most 
cases the service is voluntary. I did know that Mar- 
tina held a sort of official position as secretary of the 
Princess-director and for that reason was paid. How 
much she receives, I don’t know even to-day. It can- 


196 FABER 


not be a great deal. It is not likely that one can de- 
pend upon it for a future. Or do you think otherwise? 
Martina is no poor mathematician and will have nursed 
no exaggerated hopes.” 

“That may be,” replied Faith, shrugging her shoul- 
ders. “But an exception was made in her case. There 
is a fundamental rule that voluntary and unpaid serv- 
ices can be accepted only from those who are able to 
do without pay. The mission works with most exten- 
sive means and does not wish to misuse man-power.” 

Faber tried in vain not to show how crushed he was 
by Faith’s disclosure. He sat there brooding, with a 
fixed look and a gloomy expression. Faith saw that 
he could not bring himself to ask her more questions; 
he was not sufficiently at peace with himself. A 
thoughtful frown between her eyebrows betrayed the 
fact that she was undecided how to draw him out of 
his troubled indecision without hurting him or appear- 
ing presumptuous. Her motions at her handicraft be- 
came mechanical, for all sorts of thoughts were pour- 
ing in on her; for minutes she allowed her needle to 
rest and glanced stealthily at him; he had leaned back 
in his chair, his lips were pressed tightly together and 
he drummed interruptedly on the table with the fingers 
of his right hand. — 

No doubt about it, he did not want to speak or to 
ask. It was everything for him to keep up, so long as 


FABER 197 


possible, the pretence that no one could tell him any- 
thing new about Martina. Perhaps it was merely pain- 
ful to him that another woman felt herself called upon 
to do this; perhaps it was just this woman from whom 
he did not wish to accept it—why was inexplicable. 
At that the torture of not knowing and of not having 
known what he had just heard stood written so plainly. 
on his face that Faith’s look was constantly drawn 
back to him, and finally caused her to fall for a time 
into sorrowful reflection. 

“I think we'll close the window now,” she said; 
arose, went to the window and closed it. Then she 
turned to the door. 

“Whither?” Faber suddenly ejaculated. There was 
such a note of resentment, almost of terror, in the 
short, abrupt question that Faith turned in sur- 
prise. 


» 


“T will make some coffee,” she replied; “it will be 
good for you; it is good for headache.” 

“T don’t want coffee to-day,” he said hastily. “Please 
stay.” 

When she had reseated herself he said: “Please 
don’t let my ill humour affect you. The devil knows 
what’s the matter with me. I cannot get my proper 
balance. My own body often causes me much chagrin. 
‘My very existence is a burden to me. It may be that 


it is hard for me to acclimate myself. Hard in every 


198 FABER 


way. The air, the people, the things—I don’t get ad- 
justed. Often it seems to me as if I have artificial 
organs in my body, or am a machine that some one 
has forgotten to fire up and to lubricate. What is 
to be done? Once at least I was a cheerful fellow, 
even a little foolish, certainly not a dullard and a mis- 
anthrope. Asia has destroyed me. That is the reason: 
Asia has made me stupid and sad. But don’t let it 
affect you. Take me as Iam. So far as you are con- 
cerned that about misanthropy does not apply. Your 
company is agreeable, really agreeable—no flattery. I 
could listen for hours when you speak. Tell me some- 
thing. Anything, no matter what.” 

Thus spoke his mouth, but his eyes, twinkling pas- 
sionately in hollows a bit too deep, cried out to Faith: 
Speak only of the one; stretch me no longer on the 
rack; read the real meaning in my words, 

Faith understood the call and it seemed to move her. 
But it was manifestly not easy for her to answer his 
dumb appeal, because on his part he refused to put 
aside the mask he felt necessary to use when facing her, 
so that she had to be prepared for a sort of game of 
hide and seek. | Caution was part of her nature, and 
life had taught her that he who opens his whole heart 
to men draws the least advantage/ At the same time 
there suddenly appeared an element between her and 
this man that had not been there before, an irrepressible 


FABER 199 


and enigmatic something that both seemed to consider 
disturbing. This feeling was augmented by silence; 
so Faith said that she gladly acknowledged his praise, 
but that she was not a teller of stories; she did not 
understand how to entertain any one. In her home it 
had not been considered refined to step beyond the cus- 
tomary sparsity of speech. Beyond this she had never 
had the necessary intercourse, that is, with women. 

It was very clever of her to make him believe that 
she meant to speak solely of herself. And quite grad- 
ually, so that he did not really notice the transition, 
she came back to Martina.. She complained that it 
was difficult for a more or less cultured woman to enter 
into relations of friendship with another woman, into 
a real relationship, not merely one based on social 
bonds. When a young woman she had suffered for 
want of a female friend; she had always been bored 
by banal meetings held for the purpose of gossiping 
and exchanging foolish secrets; later this gave her a 
wrong attitude toward the world, for it made it almost 
impossible for her to acquire confidence in a woman, 
so that she rejected every intimacy from the beginning. 
Wholly in disagreement with the prevailing opinion, 
she was forced to admit that disinterested relations 
with a man, which would lead to all sorts of agreeable 
understandings, had always been much more desirable 
to her than even the most friendly association with a 


200 FABER 


woman. But this had become entirely different since 
she knew Martina and kept house with her. 

She observed that Faber breathed deeply when she 
mentioned Martina’s name and that his features imme- 
diately took on an expression of composure. She had 
to smile unwittingly, and then continued in her re- 
strained voice, which sounded like a harsh whisper 
even when she spoke loudly: “As I had no confidence 
in friendship between women I also did not know 
what sort of a world this relationship opens—a world 
existing wholly for itself, completely undiscovered. 
Martina was the first to teach me what one woman 
may mean to another woman; since then I live dif- 
ferently and think differently.” 

She shrugged her shoulders a bit and the dark eyes, 
half closed by remarkably beautiful eyelids, sought a 
spot on the table, where they remained fixed. “She 
is always present with me. When I think about her 
she stands before meas if alive. It was thus even from 
the beginning. I could guess practically all her 
thoughts and she was often very much put out thereby. 
I knew when she had had a disagreeable experience or 
something ailed her. When she was in a bad humour 
I told her the reason. This often made her laugh and 
kiss me and call me her shadow-ego, her better ego. 
But as it happened this was no virtue on my part. 
When one carries the image of another within him 


FABER 201 


one can know much about him. I will not contend 
that this is always an accurate judgment. But it is 
often enough. A woman from the very first knows 
more about women than does a man. If it comes to 
that I could probably describe Martina’s life in the 
last few years in such a manner that perhaps even you, 
who are closer to her than any other person, would 
learn something peculiar. I say perhaps; I don’t want 
to appear presumptuous. It just happens to strike me 
that way often.” 

She was silent for a while and did not dare to look 

up lest she meet the burning look that Faber had fas- 
tened on her. 
“Well, try it anyhow,” she heard his husky voice 
say. “Suppose that is really the case and make the 
attempt. It makes me curious.” This was meant to 
sound amiable and humourous, but it sounded sup- 
pressed and eager. 

Faith now looked at him, wrinkling her forehead as 
if he were not sitting opposite her but at a distance. 
She smiled. “Very well, I'll try it,” she said. 


AV 


“Asout the time Martina became acquainted wit! 
the Princess,” began Faith, “she already had reasoı 
to hope for your return.” Her face became more ani 
more serious and her look showed that she was im 
mersed in her subject. “Many were coming home a 
that time—husbands, fathers, sons, brothers; man 
were awaited with ardent longing. Martina had als 
passed the months and years in longing. It had grad 
ually become very difficult for her to connect one da 
with another and the evenings and nights were stil 
worse. Everything was so unrelated and fragmentary 
and the regularity of change was a torture to her 
Everything she did seemed useless to her. She als 
had worries to combat; first about money, then worrie 
over Christopher’s education; worries over the inse 
curity of her position. She did not like to enter int 
a close connection with any one, did not have the knacl 
for it, or the conventional attitude. Her aptitude lie 
in another direction. Thus she found herself mor 
and more left to herself week after week. Dr. Fabe 
came at times, but what was she to do with him? Hi 
abject reverence touched her, even amused her, but a 


a man and a human being he aroused an undefine 
202 


FABER = 


sympathy in her, and she does not like to be sympa- 
hetic. She could not get along with Clara; they en- 
yaged in much ironical banter without having anything 
o say. Likewise she could not get along with Frau 
Anna, but I must not speak about the reason. So long 
is Dr. Faber lived she could find solace with him. She 
ıas often told me about him; he seems to have been 
ı wonderful man, and at his death she fell into a mood 
»f despair for the first time. 

“T believe—in fact I am very certain of it—that 
lecisive changes took place in Martina between Dr. 
faber’s death and her meeting with the Princess. To 
liscuss that is hardly possible. Shall I tramp boldly 
m this delicate subject? I might hurt it by merely 
hinking of it. Things took on a new aspect and she 
‘ven came to new conclusions about herself. Reflect 
‘or a moment how women live—the daily task; the 
‘outine of distasteful housework; the mechanical pace 
n joy and sorrow and all the heavier responsibilities 
jut on the shoulders of the man, with the exception of 


t 


hose affecting the children, which very few take seri- 
vusly—how can any one arrive at the truth of exist- 
ınce under such conditions? Women are practically 
ll asleep; they are forced to that, for no provision is 
nade for their wakefulness. Perhaps Martina awoke 
it that time. Perhaps she was no longer satisfied with 


he role she had played until now—liking neither the 


| 
| 
| 
| 


204 FABER 


ease on the one hand, nor the insecurity on the other. 
Perhaps she could no longer endure sitting there, plac- 
ing her hands in her lap, looking sadly on and waiting, 
At least that is how it began. It began because she 
became ashamed of weakness and helplessness. And 
because she determined no longer to stand inactive and 
wait, but to meet the man she expected halfway, that is 
to say to do something that would give her this satis- 
faction. For until now it had seemed to her that after 
every year of waiting she found herself that much 
farther away from him. This happened of itself; it 
was painful, but unavoidable. 

“At that moment Fate placed the Princess in her 
path. Think of what it means to find guidance and 
support in such a crisis! The Princess guessed every- 
thing by her gift of divination. When Martina was 
not able to explain herself she provided the words— 
the simplest and the gentlest. The conflict was not new 
to her—she had seen women with noble motives go 
to pieces because of it. In an unforgettable conversa- 
tion that I had with her later she told me how affecting 
it was to hear Martina express herself in all sorts of 
puzzling intimations, she who was unaccustomed to 
speak freely, who feared and yet ‘wished to do so; 
how she shyly asked question after question with grow- 
ing confidence until she suddenly revealed herself, still 
with reserve but understood easily enough by the ex- 


% 


FABER 205 


perienced woman. The Princess had only to say, ‘Come 
to me,’ and Martina did not delay an instant. She 
was ready to fulfil the most exacting conditions. The 
Princess said to me: ‘She is like a man who has never 
measured his strength and for that reason puts himself 
to the hardest tests.’ And then something else hap- 
pened.” 

Faith hesitated a little before continuing in a voice 
even more suppressed than before. “Martina was 
wholly without religious training. She had grown up 
as a real heathen, like most of the generation born 
around 1900. In addition her father had been a vio- 
lent liberal in his youth and had never believed in any- 
thing but his art. I am told that artists may do so. 
[t may be. Martina had felt for years a feeling of rev- 
arence that had no object—you must know about that 
—she was hungry for something exalted, and who 
could guide her more pleasantly than the Princess, a 
woman who is all presentiment and humility, whose 
message is carried forward by sympathizers and by 
the widely extended outposts of a new belief? Here 
Martina had the opportunity to satisfy the desire she 
had so long suppressed; the load on her shoulders was 
too great, and she would have collapsed if she had not 
possessed this look upward and this confidence in what 
the Princess calls the Unknown Heart under the Stars. 
She came home many an evening with her eyes filled 


206 FABER 


with terror at the pictures she had seen. In her slee 
she murmured the names of children and sobbed int! 
her pillow. During the first weeks I passed half th 
nights watching at her bedside; when she awoke te 
“ rified she would beg me to read her a fairy tale b 
Andersen, for this calmed her; or a certain story b 
Mörike that she was most fond of; this made he 
laugh. But it was very hard to allay her terror, cause 
by the terrible knowledge of hunger and cold and lac 
of shelter and early sins and early crimes; this wa 
etched deep into her mind. Have you not observe 
that? Finally she came out; of it stronger in spite 0 
everything and when she began her daily task sh 
radiated pride and confidence. From now on she di 
not wait for your home-coming in the old way. ] 
became an entirely different sort of waiting. The let 
ters she wrote you must give proof of that. An 
those she received had a different effect than formerly. 

Faith stopped once more, for everything she ha 
to reveal came very close and was full of significance 
She reflected and hunted for words. Faber did not in 
terrupt her once, either with sound or with gesture 
He had become pale and not a drop of blood seeme 
to flow beneath his skin. 

“The letters Martina received from you affected he 
strangely,” she continued her narrative; “on the day | 
letter came she was most joyfully excited. First sh 


FABER 207 


ould regard it for a long time, not daring to open 
, and would press it to her breast; then she would 
0 to her room to read it. In the evening she would 
sually come to me with the letter. So far as possible 
re would tell me what it contained, cite certain pas- 
ges, read whole pages to me, and add her amusing 
r serious comment. More and more she was seized 
y a strange contemplation when in the midst of it. 
hen she would sit there with the letter in her hand, 
lent and reflecting. Again she would ask me some 
uestion, usually on an unimportant subject and then 
unk and think, with her fingers pressed into her 
reeks. “What are you thinking of?’ I ask; she shakes 
er head. She had heard that after seven years a 
ew set of cells forms in the human body, so she asked 
le in fun whether one could develop new eyes or a 
ew nose by this method, and added smilingly: ‘If 
smething like that happened to Eugene I would weep 
tyself sick.” One day I told her about a returned 
ger, a young manufacturer, who had formerly lived 


ith his wife in the most happy circumstances; since 





is return to her they disagreed often; every conversa- 
on became a quarrel, every look led to a misunder- 
anding; yet neither had been guilty of anything and 
one could bring any charge against the other. Mar- 


na knew the woman and was aware of the unfortu- 
ae situation. After being lost in reflection for a 


| 
| 


] 
E 


208 FABER 


while she said that they were like two persons who 
had formerly played music together in harmony and 
now played each for himself, using a different key, a 
different tempo, and eventually even a different com- 
position. This comparison remained on her mind the 
whole evening and made her constantly think of new 
possibilities. ‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘the man has lost 
his feeling for music in all those years and the wife 
keeps up the illusion in order to spare him,’ and again: 
‘Perhaps he no longer finds any pleasure in music and 
accompanies his wife merely to be obliging, or she has 
made such progress that he can no longer keep step 
with her and therefore plays false notes out of anger 
and spite.’ When I suggested that the reverse might 
also be the case she replied almost joyfully: ‘Of course 
the reverse might be the case and that would be much) 
better, for she would sooner adapt herself to him than: 
he to her, and would follow his instructions more) 
quickly than he would hers; let us hope it is the re- 
verse.’ Finally she suggested that the worst of all 
would be if both played miserably and each blamed 
the other because he believed that his partner had for- 
gotten everything. Eventually she reddened and be 
came embarrassed because she was aware that most of 
her deductions ran in favor of the woman and that I 
might consider this observation on her part as im- 
modest; but such conduct was certainly not in her. 






FABER 209 


As for myself, I saw by this incident the extent of 
her distress, and how this increased with every step 
and every thought. For as the moment for your re- 
turn home approached she became daily more anxious 
and moody. When your letters failed to come she often 
acted as if feverish. She took out your earlier letters, 
some of which she had read so often and had studied 
‚so much that she knew them by heart. Every syllable 
was important to her, and she sought between the lines 
for a hidden meaning. When Frau Faber came with 
news she trembled like an aspen; when Dr. Fleming 
‘appeared to make inquiries she talked a hodgepodge. 
‘Several times she remained for the night with the 
"Princess; toward the last only she could calm her. It 
was her restlessness, yes, but not solely that, nor solely 
the suspense and the expectation and the joy. It was 
something else: fear. Her fear dominated all other 
-feelings—that is what it was.” 

The word electrified Faber. With a violent move- 
ment he caught Faith’s wrist and cried: “Yes, by God, 
yes! Fear it was—fear!” 

' He knows it, this fear; his eyes say so, but he must 
not put it into words. It had weighed upon his breast 
like a ton of sand. It had darkened his thoughts and 
embittered his bread. Out of what had it come? Out 
‘of nothing—a figment of the imagination, the spectre 
ofa dream, which had produced a poison out of his 


210 FABER 


suspicion and his feeling of deprivation. After that 
no hour or occupation holds any peace for him; fear 
becomes his companion, grinning in every face, whis- 
pering in every sound. Something has changed over 
yonder, thousands of miles away, but what? All his 
intense thinking produces nothing but this threat, 
which tortures him like a red-hot iron. He too read 
Martina’s letters numberless times; he too could re- 
peat almost all of them from memory. Reading them, 
he suspected the change that had occurred; her hand 
betrayed more to him than her words; he could not 
comprehend it or grasp it and yet could not shake it 
off by any power of the will; it ate on as does a cancer, 

And yet he might well have fear while wandering in 
a strange land like Ulysses, for he came by fear nat- 
urally, as a natural illness, brought about by the violent 
character of his fate. What, on the other hand, created 
her fear? Fear was his neighbour and bedfellow, for 
he was without sources of aid, without men, or friends, 
or the sounds of home, or wife and child, thinking 
himself disowned, enchained, forgotten; but she, Mar- 
tina, still rooted in friendly soil, what did she have 
to fear? “Tell me, Faith,” he pleaded, placing his 
open palms together and extending them toward her ; 
“tell me, what did she fear?” 

Faith dropped her head and did not reply for a long 
time. Suddenly she rose, drew her chair closer to his 


FABER 211 


and put her hand on his arm. Her look brightened 
with cordiality, her cheeks flushed in her eagerness, 
her whole being became animated, confidential, with 
a sister’s confidence, and she said: “Now listen to me, 
Eugene Faber. Listen calmly to me and don’t get 
impatient. I have to reflect well over what I am now 
going to tell you and have to be careful to get things 
logically, so that there will be no confusion. Let us 
begin at the beginning. What a wonderful fate was 
meted out to you, you and Martina! In early youth 
you found each other, each the one human being with 
whom the other could live. How rare that is, how 
very rare! You were like brother and sister, and yet 
married, and always companions; you two on the one 
side and the whole world on the other. You never 
needed the world, it never touched you, never troubled 
you. You lived a magical life, as in a fairy tale, 
actually a magical life. How long can that last? How 
long did you think it would last? For ever? Did 
you think it would last for ever? One day it would 
have come to an end, one way or another; one day 
‘the world would have confronted you, and you would 
have had to make a decision and part with some of 
your treasured happiness. The world does not permit 
us to hide away from it entirely, from its terrible real- 
ity, and this is just. There is a point where happiness 
becomes pride and coldness of heart. Every one must 


212 FABER 


assume his share; two persons may not stand apart 
and say: ‘We hear nothing, we know nothing, we are 
sufficient unto ourselves and have nothing in common 
with the rest of you.’ They would discover at the end 
that the soul of one had completely consumed the soul 
of the other. Don’t you agree this would be the out- 
come? You have doubts. Not I. I mean to say 
that it was best that you were so suddenly torn apart. 
When Martina stood alone all at once she missed her 
support. It was as if a prop were withdrawn from a 
young tree; in the first gust of wind it would break. 
What had she been up to that time? A loving wife; a 
beloved woman. Suddenly the one for whom she was 
that, through whom she was that, was no longer be- 
side her. What was left was too little to fill her life, or, 
let us say, her year. You know the year has three 
hundred and sixty-five days. She could not be a 
mother exclusively. She was not wholly suited for 
that; something had to be conceded to herself; her 
problem was, how to get along by herself. What was 
she to do when, figuratively, she no longer had a floor 
beneath her feet or a roof above her head? As I have 
said before, she no longer wanted to sit there and put 
her hands in her lap; she simply did not find it fitting 
to exist wholly by virtue of one man’s benevolence, his 
experience, his knowledge, his work, his spirit, his) 
home-coming or continued absence, even when she 


| 


| 


| 


FABER 213 


loved this person above everything else, or precisely 
because she loved him. Could she have done anything 
wiser and more courageous than what she did? I will 
admit the task was often hard and at times beyond 
her strength. But then came her joy at having gained 
her goal, the daily, wonderful joy at what she 
had overcome; she learned to respect herself and to 
fulfil her duty to herself, and out of the clinging little 
wife developed an active human being; that is some- 
thing, and will you not agree that it was worth the 
effort? But even then she became anxious: What 
will Eugene say? How will he regard this? With 
what sort of look will he measure me? Every other 
woman in her position would naturally have sat 
down and written: ‘My dear Eugene, thus and so; 
thus I felt about it; this has happened and this have I 
done; the Martina whom you left is not the same Mar- 
tina to whom you will return; these are the reasons.’ 
Ninety-nine out of one hundred would have done so; 
unfortunately she is the hundredth and cannot do so; 
to philosophize over it is fruitless, for this happens to 
be the situation. She could merely hope that her Eu- 
gene would detect it and discover it at long distance; 
beyond that she had to be satisfied with reporting pass- 
ing events in the manner of a primer. Well, you de- 
tected it, but not in the way Martina hoped you would. 
God knows what delusions you had built up for your- 


214 FABER 


self! Can’t I understand! And could it have been 
different? Your desperation, because year followed 
year; the theft of your life and your vain fight against 
it. According to your view Martina was the deserted 
one, the one who needed help and protection, and if 
not, then she must seem lost to you. You wanted to 
have explicit proof that you were necessary to her, 
that she could do nothing without her husband, and 
of this her letters contained less and less; with this 
horrible secrecy on your mind the untold story be- 
came a picture of terror. How well I understand that! 
But let us talk about Martina. Let us talk about what 
she wished and what she expected of you. Beginning 
with the basic self, and taking her as she was, she 
hoped first to find her way into her new life with you, 
to be treated fairly first, to be approved of first, so 
that she would not have the feeling that she was de- 
ceiving the dearest person or that he would have before 
him, so to speak, two Martinas, one that he knew and 
another mysterious one of whom he knew nothing. She 
would like to have had everything begin again, so 
that she could conquer and could let herself be won 
again. She did not want to begin with memories or 
take the past into consideration; too much evil lay 
between, too much torment, too many desolate days. 
Then came her fear, fear that things might turn out 


differently ; no wooing, no discovering one another and 


FABER | 215 


seeking one another; merely seizure, merely the claim, 
‘merely the demand, as if nothing had happened to her; 
as if six years must be forgotten and erased; as if 
that were possible, as if people could begin life together 
again at the exact spot where they had left off, the 
very day and hour. She could not tolerate the thought 
that this could come about, but she received no sign 
from you to allay her fears. Finally you came. And 
what happened? You wandered about in the city. 
Clara brought the news that you were at her house. 
I will not attempt to describe in what condition this 
put Martina. I prayed, when she left, that she might 
not break down on the street. Probably you noticed 
very little of this when you saw her, so cheerful. And 
then the days that followed. All her dread forebodings 
were realized. Be not angry with me, Eugene Faber, 
for it was thus, and it is thus: A perturbed and obdu- 
rate man came into this house, one who did not see or 
hear or feel and merely wanted something. What did 
he want? Just what had been before. He wanted his 
right. Right is here the equivalent of force. Demand? 
Is demand anything else than violence? Is there such 
a thing as a love demand? No. Does one person be- 
long to another? No. Does one possess another save 
in that he earns the right, and serves him anew every 
day? No. There will probably be no difference of 
Opinion between us on that. I think you know every- 


216 FABER 


thing now, and if I have been too explicit and perhaps 
even a bit too violent, forgive me.” 

She stopped and turned her face away, breathing 
deeply. Faber did not trust himself to move. His 
eyes seemed to have lost all life; his head was drawn 
down between his shoulders; he was gnawing continu- 
ously at his lower lip with his teeth, at last so severely 
that it began to bleed. Thus they sat silently beside one 
another for some time. Suddenly Faber seized Faith 
by both hands before she was aware and pressed his 
lips first on one and then on the other. And on each 
of her hands remained a little spot of blood. His 
movement had been so abrupt, the expression of his 
face so full of reverence, that Faith did not dare op- 
pose him; but she paled noticeably, withdrew her hands 
in fright and said: “Now we have had enough of talk- 
ing.” 

Thereupon she rose, nodded to him and hurriedly 
left the room. It was a quarter past three o’clock. 


XVI 


On the following day Faber began his work. He 
was introduced to the chief of his division and several 
colleagues, was assigned a place at a desk loaded with 
documents and took pains to observe the well-meant 
advice of an old clerk on how to treat those documents ; 
then he lost himself in reading receipts, rescripts, peti- 
tions, estimates of costs, and proofs of damages. He 
glanced absently at those who passed continuously 
through the corridor-like room, listened to a detailed 
conversation between two roommates about the quali- 
ties of their tavern, and after office hours showed on 
his face traces of the boredom through which he had 
passed. On his way home he visited Fleming and 
with ironic humour described to him his impressions 
and experiences, adding that it was fortunate that it 
was immaterial whether or not he tarried there; this 
illusion of work was useful only to kill time with, and 
of that he had plenty on hand. “Your newly consti- 
tuted offices,” he said, “are obviously intended to make 
people who would otherwise break windowpanes harm- 
less by scrawling on paper.” 

“My God, we try all sorts of ways,” sighed Flem- 


217 


218 FABER 


ing. “Panic—no end. We are like hens in a court- 
yard that see a hawk circling above them. How can 
any one produce anything useful amid the scream- 
ing and noise of wings? A hawk—well, there is 
something imposing about that; but rats ina barn... 
Last week they stole sixteen valuable works from the 
university library. Not a soul pays any attention to 
it. Or, to continue my figure, not a rooster crows. 
You know I don’t like to lament, but it can give me 
no pleasure when the most sacred things are not re- 
spected. When does Martina return ?” 

Faber shrugged his shoulders. He begged of 
Fleming the ancient book on astrology by Cardano, 
which he possessed; he had borrowed it from him 
once, years ago. Fleming studied his catalogue, then 
climbed a Jadder and took the volume from one of 
the uppermost shelves. “Take good care of it—it 
cannot be replaced,” he said, and added, while a broad 
smile passed over his good-natured pudgy face: “Do 
you still consider star-gazing a science as you did 
long ago? The old Goethe seems to be right when he 
declares that a man becomes a mystic in his late years.” 

“It is not a matter of star-gazing,” said Faber; “it 
is a matter of—well, I can’t find the philosophical ex- 
pressions which make this interesting. We look for 
coherence. Would it not be a salvation for our con- 
sciousness if we could prove coherence in things. 


FABER 219 


That would make us less wretched at once. We could 
imagine that we had a function. The Chinese know 
a great deal about this. That is why they are such 
calm and incomprehensible people. Farewell, old 
Fleming.” 

He went home, but as there was no one in the 
house he left again. The lovely weather did not tempt 
him half so much as the empty rooms distressed him. 
He bought several fine pears at a fruit stand, but 
when he sat down on a bench of the avenue in order 
to eat them he no longer had any appetite and de- 
cided to take them home with him. 

First, however, he wanted to call on Clara. He 
met her at the entrance of the house; she was just 
descending from a private automobile and saying 
farewell to an elderly woman, who remained seated in 
the car and who wore a chinchilla cloak in spite of the 
warm weather. When Clara perceived her brother 
she took his arm and led him into the house, and said 
as she passed in: “As you see me now I am worth 
countless millions more than an hour ago. So show 
me respect.” From a leather handbag she took a 
fairly large case, looked around with simulated fear 
to see if any one was near by, and opened it. Faber 
beheld, with some astonishment, a valuable diadem of 
gems which threw a radiance of purple, green, and 
blue rays in the half-light of the staircase. 


220 FABER 


“The woman in the automobile, you must know, 


bf 


was my mother-in-law,” reported Clara, as she locked 
the case again in her bag; “Frau Counsellor Herge- 
sell, an elegant and noble woman. A formal family 
dinner takes place to-morrow. The counsellor will be 
seventy years old. And because I have no appropriate 
jewels and yet, as the youngest member of the Her- 
gesell clan, have to make an appearance, Mamma has 
loaned me the diadem. Therefore, your sister will 
appear to-morrow evening arrayed in a glory that may 
well excite envy. You can imagine that stage-fright 
is already affecting my reason.” 

Faber remarked smilingly: “In spite of your mock- 
ery you will not succeed in shaking my faith in it. 
There is no damage at all if the jewels happen to 
make you a bit insane. I understand that. ‘There is 
something terrible about such diamonds. They always 
make me think of bewitched and purified souls.” He 
reddened, which looked well on him. He reddened 
because with his words he passed from the realm of 
the commonplace, which was rarely the case. 

“Mother has been abed since yesterday; she is not 
very well,” said Clara, when they entered the apart- 
ment. “Go to her for a little; I will follow immedi- 
ately.” 

In Anna Faber’s room reigned as great disorder as 
in a newspaper office. Letters and brochures lay 


FABER 221 


everywhere, as well as written sheets and packages of 
letters. Just as in former years she still corresponded 
with the whole world. On a round table near her bed 
stood a teapot, a cup, a few broken rolls, an enormous 
inkwell, a barometer and a photograph in a mahogany 
stand. This was a picture of Valentine, the unusually 
handsome face of a youth in which one noticed the 
thin lips, formed like a half-moon and turning down 
at the ends, and the eyes, which were peculiarly 
crooked or aslant. 

Mother and son communicated in monosyllables. 
Eugene inquired about the nature of Anna Faber’s 
indisposition. She rejected any show of anxiety in 
curt answers and was angry at Eugene because he 
thad neglected her for some time. Her appearance 
‘did not suggest a serious illness; her eyes sparkled 
with life and her firm and fleshy face, which still bore 
‘traces of former beauty, was tanned by the sun. The 
difficulty was with her legs; she complained impa- 
‘tiently that she could neither stand nor walk. 

“Nevertheless, I must go out to-morrow,’ she 
‘cried, with the slightly theatrical vehemence that she 
always used. “A person like myself cannot remain 
under the feathers for thrice twenty-four hours. 
Listen to me, dear son,” she said, lowering her pow- 
erful voice and looking firmly at Eugene. “Can’t you 
get me some money? I need a fairly large sum. I 


222 FABER 


can get nowhere with Hergesell; there is not a spark. 
of generosity in the man, and he keeps Clara as short 
as possible. No doubt on his part he is dependent on 
his father. Well, how about it; can you spare some- 
thing for me?” 

Eugene looked at her in astonishment. The request 
was so urgent and yet his mother’s manner so strangely 
secretive that he did not immediately find a rejoinder. 
Anna Faber had never understood how to deal with 
money; she held it in contempt and never had any; 
when occasionally some money came to her she gave 
it away or made the most foolish purchases. Her 
own children had therefore taken her very early under 
their charge, so that she had the disposal of very 
slight sums. 

“You will have to tell me Gad Meitad for what 
purpose you need the money,” replied Eugene, with 
semi-humorous deliberation. “A fairly large sum. 
No, that is impossible; but some help in an emer- 
gency—we might talk about that; but as I say, no 
secrets.” 

Anna Faber became angry. “I am old enough and 
man enough, or woman enough, also to have my 
secrets. What a filthy lot you all are! Bah, the 
devil!” 

Eugene laughed. He did not take the matter very 
seriously. Before he could reply Clara entered. She 


“ FABER 223 


had thrown a black silk scarf about her shoulders and 
wore the diadem in her hair. “Well, how do I please 
you?” she asked with pretended dignity, behind which 
her amusement could be detected. “Feudal, don’t you 
think? It is well, after all, to be a Hergesell. How 
do I please you, Mother? The scarf is naturally in- 
tended only as an accessory in decoration.” 

Anna Faber gave her daughter a disturbed look. 
“Is it really necessary to be a Hergesell?” she asked, 
throwing back her head proudly. “As a Faber you are 
also somebody. You look as if you were born with 
it.” 

“God protect me from such courtly manners,” 
mocked Clara. Then she confronted Eugene. “And 
what does my brother think of it?” she asked. “I 
can tell him what he thinks. First, he thinks that his 
Martina would look one hundred times more beau- 
tiful with these gems. That is true. But they hap- 
pened to come to me. Second, he thinks that we 
Fabers are poor trash, always have been so, and 
always will be so. This is no less true, for even my 
share in the Hergesell wealth, when examined closely, 
can be blown throt gh my five fingers.” She blew 
through her widespread fingers. 

“You should not read thoughts, Sister, for you read 
badly,” replied Eugene. 

“Yes, yes,” said Clara, looking in the mirror. “A 


224 FABER 


poor girl who marries into a rich family is like a little 
craftsman who lets himself be bought up by a stock 
company. There is one general meeting a year at 
which he is permitted to see how the dividends are 
divided; for the rest, he can be happy if they pat him 
affably on the shoulders.” 

“Disgraceful, her talk!” cried Anna Faber. “And 
your children ?” 

Clara removed the diadem from her head. “My 
children? They are already on the other side, the 
wealthy side.” 

“For heaven’s sake take care of those jewels,” Anna 
Faber admonished her daughter. “To be responsible 
for such valuable objects would destroy my sleep.” 

Eugene took his leave. Faith was already waiting 
for him with supper when he reached home. He 
asked about Christopher, who had already been put to 
bed, and she made report in a dutiful tone. He told 
her about his office, his visit to his mother and sister, 
and the jewelry. She listened with a cordially frank 
expression. She was pleased each time by the way he 
used his words. His voice likewise seemed to appeal 
to her. The shading and modulations of the voice 
have an important influence on the relations of human 
beings. 

He enjoyed the meal. It touched him to think that 
she also took pains on his behalf in this we He | 


x 


FABER 225 


praised especially the preparation of the vegetables and 
asked where she had learned to cook; not many women 
like her knew how to cook, and those who did made 
much of it. She replied that she had been taught 
when still a child to work in the household; later it 
had become necessary. He had noticed before that she 
never mentioned her marriage directly. 

With a sidelong glance at her hands he remarked 
that it would be unfortunate if such hands were 
ruined at a stove. She wrinkled her forehead a little 
and replied that there was no danger, for Martina had 
been good enough to provide for help in the kitchen 
for certain hours of the day. He feared that he had 
been tactless, but an attempt to repair the mistake 
might increase it. There was an apology in the haste 
with which he offered her the pears he had brought, 
for the meal was at an end. She produced two plates 
and two silver knives and began to peel the fruit. 

“You should not peel it,” he said; “it loses the 
odour and the down.” 

“Tt won’t do,” she replied, smiling. “I was not 
brought up that way. To bite in—that won’t do.” 

“Fruits should be treated as animals are,” he con- 
tinued in a pedantic tone, and observed how she placed 
one of the white pieces that she had cut between her 
big white teeth. “Observe, for instance, a pear. How 
much of life there is in the contour; then the graceful 


226 FABER 


curve of the stem above; the rich, golden colour, how 
warm and delicate; no painter captures it. Practically 
all the earthen vessels of the Orient are fashioned after 
the forms of fruit.”’ 

It was still early in the evening and there was still 
much for Faith to do in the house. She left and re- 
turned; she carried out the china; she watered the 
flowers; then she brought her little account book, sat 
down at the table, and engaged in computation. The 
account appeared not to balance; she placed her pencil 
across her lips and reflected, whereby her face assumed 
the expression of a Madonna. But when she answered 
his questions or herself broke the silence with a few 
words she spoke in a comradely manner and with the 
same look of cordial frankness. i 

Faber had meantime opened his astrological folio. 
He turned the leaves and looked at the various geo- 
metrical configurations. Faith asked him what book 
it was; he explained it to her and she was surprised, 
sat down beside him, and also looked at the book. 

“This man proves that I can undertake nothing 
that is not written in the stars as law and precept,” 
said Faber; “nor omit doing anything. The book is 
three hundred years old, but the most profound 
thinkers believed over six thousand years ago that 
destiny was written in the stars. There is something 
to it, but one does not dare to take it up for fear of 


FABER 227 


becoming too much attached to it. The question is 





whether the star in which you put your trust really 
directs you. Yesterday it was all lies and fantastics, 
to-day it is again becoming true; and so everything 
gets reversed. You have merely to wait and observe 
where the little pellet rolls to.” 

' They discussed it for a while longer and then Faith 
said: “A letter from Martina will come to-morrow.” 





_ They retired early, for both were tired from the 
long wakefulness of the night before. 

' But no letter came from Martina the next day. 
Faber remained in his office but a short time. At 
noon he was already back home. Staying home 
seemed suddenly to agree with him. Only it was 
strange that he gave little attention to Christopher, 
and Faith spoke to him about this. He did not have 
the patience, however. He tolerated the boy’s com- 
pany only when Faith was present, and this did not 
elude the natural keenness of the child; he drew back 
on his part and his searching eyes, glittering as if 
from ambush, betrayed a confused mistrust. What 
this might signify did not distress Faber; besides he 
hardly noticed it. Faith might have felt anxious 
about it, for she had a remarkable understanding of 
the character of the boy, but the change in Faber’s 
manner, the frankness and animation that he now 
showed, gave her such hope and gratification that she 


228 FABER 


did not want this feeling disturbed by anything un- 
pleasant. 

Her bearing betrayed this; there was something 
more proud than usual in her expressions, and when 
she observed the eagerness, almost childlike, with 
which Faber sought her presence and watched for 
her word and look, she attributed it to the change for 
good that she had caused. It was no wonder that 
she also should become more frank, more free, and 
more cheerful. She could not deceive herself and did 
not dare to; she had neither the inclination nor the 
tendency to that, and so she gave no attention to her 
own self. 

She mentioned that she intended to decorate the 
rooms for Martina’s return. 

In the evening he told her about his experiences 
on shipboard, about meetings with Siberian hunters, 
about a fire in a Chinese village, and many other 
things. She listened, with her chin resting on her 
folded hands. 

While he spoke he drew on a sheet of paper lying 
before him. It turned out to be a head, then a face. 
A strong forehead, well placed eyebrows, a firm gen- 
erous mouth, with a soft, melancholy expression over 
the features. 

It was a portrait of Faith. 

She blushed when she noticed it, and when he asked 


FABER rors 


her if she wanted it she seemed at first undecided, but 
finally accepted it. He took back the paper once more 
and wrote under the portrait: “Everlastingly grateful, 
Eugene Faber.” 

Thereupon Faith dropped her head, raised it again, 
and looked at him with her marvellously calm expres- 
sion. 

The next evening, while Faith was embroidering a 
monogram on a handkerchief of batiste for Martina, 
they again touched on the unusually long period of his 
exile, a theme to which he returned at every oppor- 
tunity as if by necessity, and with the attitude of a 
man who wants to remove a pin from his body and 
cannot find the place where it is hidden. In a moment 
when the torture that he had experienced became alive 
in memory he could not withstand the painful temp- 
tation of speaking timidly and indirectly of the sexual 
deprivation which condemns a man in his situation to 
a veritable hell. 

She became a little frightened and unconsciously 
tried to avoid his unexpected frankness, but she readily 
saw that he spoke naively and innocently, as if he 
wanted to tell her of suffering that he had been unable 
to tell any one heretofore, and as if he hoped to win 
release from pain by his communication. So she al- 





lowed him to proceed. 
It was hard to be just in this matter, especially with 


230) FABER 


regard to a woman, he said; nature had constituted 
man and woman very differently; where the one per- 
ished for lack of sustenance, the other had-not yet 
experienced the hunger of desire, and these differences 
were further sharpened by civilization and custom. 
Besides, men were very little advanced in self-knowl- 
edge, so that in the end they knew as little of theit 
own needs as those of a stranger. In Europe, despite 
all its learning, the body had been put under restraint 
and fetters. 

“In general our men, as I saw them there, threw 
all timidity aside and became beasts,” he continued. 
“You can well imagine how that happens. But there 
is nothing to be learned from this unsavoury tragedy 
save that they throw off the qualities culture has given 
them; and thus comes madness. This does not mean 
that men did not combat their debasement, but merely 
that they lost in the fight. Most men—that is, ninety- 
nine out of one hundred—have the faculty of dividing 
themselves. They divide body and soul from one an- 
other. They discard the soul or they discard the body, 
as it happens. For this purpose they have instituted 
special rules and laws, each for himself, as well as a 
specialized advocacy with all sorts of anchors to wind- 
ward and escapes. Thus nothing can ever happen te 
them. They have one domain for love, for what they 
call the higher things, and another for the so-called 


FABER 231 


yassions and the rest, all of which they lump together. 
[hey are very happily situated; they carry a passe- 
yartout for all occasions and with this in the pocket 
hey paddle gaily through the waters in their little 
hips of adventure. It was my fortune that I had not 
he least talent for this. I was helplessly fixed during 
he whole period—as if held down by chains. I could 
ıot release myself. There is talk of the blood, of the 
)ower of the blood. Surely the blood can give you 
nuch pain, surely. But with me that was not the 
vorst. The worst pain came from what eye and ear 
rave me and from what the memory had etched into 























ye and ear. And then there was a certain aggravat- 
ng noise, a humming and whirring in the nerves, 
nuch like the hum of telegraph wires that you hear 
vhen you press your head against the pole, only much 
nore intolerable and so severe that you cannot free 
rourself from it. It was odd, this matter of my 
ixation. Naturally there was but one woman in the 
vorld for me, but she gradually lost reality and be- 
ame something gigantic in size, so that I could no 
onger see the sky because she obscured it. When I 
aw a woman walking before me her very walk had 
|omething in it that pierced my thought like an electric 
hharge; this came also from seeing the way her dress 
tung to her hips, the movement of the hairs of her 
teck and the bending of her knees. The actual scene 


232 FABER 


always became confused with the one wished for, and 
then immediately came the tormenting question: Will 
I ever again grasp it, hold it; what space, and time, 
and bad fortune lie between? Thus went weeks and 
weeks, months and years. Impossible to convey an 
idea of it. Anything I say is merely incoherent stam- 
mering.” 

He said all this so simply, with such considerate 
reticence that Faith’s features lost their first expres- 
sion of discomfort. She listened to him earnestly and 
attentively. 

“I once lay sick in the tent of nomadic shepherds,” 
he said; “this was in the upper Amur district, a deso- 
late region. I no longer remember how long I lay 
there; perhaps it was five or six days. And think of it, 
it happened that I was awakened every night by the 
singing of a woman’s voice. Every night at the same 
hour the deep voice of a woman sang the same song, 
a melancholy folk or shepherd song, in a drawn and 
monotonous rhythm. It came from such a distance 
that I had to exert myself even to hear it. This sing- 
ing was the most terrible experience I had. Each 
time my heart pulsated until I felt it in my temples; 
I no longer had the desire to breathe; I tossed about 
on the covers like a lunatic and bit at the tent poles. 


It was a condition such as that which precedes starva-_ 


tion. Everything was fiery—the palate, the hair, the 


FABER 233 


finger nails. One night I could stand it no longer; I 
stumbled out of the tent, fell down, and then crept on 
all fours in the direction of the singing. There was 
but one thought in my mind: To the woman, to the 
woman! As if that meant salvation. The woman, the 
singing woman, that was salvation, that was divinity. 
Had it been death, that would not have changed mat- 
ters. Well, betimes the foolish fever passed and only 
stupidity remained.” 

He afose and shook himself. “Enough,” he said, 
with an attempt to put a casual note into his voice. 
“You see by this that a man is entitled to a little con- 
sideration when he does not conduct himself like a 
meek Quaker upon his return home.” He smiled sar- 
castically. “That reminds me of a story that I have 
heard or read somewhere. The story of a pair of 
doves. The two doves had built their nest; the female 
laid eggs and began to hatch them, the male flew out 
and procured food for his spouse. This continues 
for a time; one day he returns to find his nest empty. 
The lady has disappeared. He waits; he becomes 
anxious; in his anxiety for his progeny he takes on 
himself the work of hatching the eggs, but as hour 
follows hour and the whole night passes without the 
return of the female he is suddenly seized by a 
berserker rage and begins not only to destroy the 
nest but to cast out the eggs, which break to pieces 


234 FABER 


on the ground. Not one stone or, more accurately in 
this case, not one straw remains on the other. He 
has not yet overcome his chagrin when he observes the 
lady on the ridge of a roof across the street in the 
midst of an assembly of doves, where she is ostensibly 
the spokesman. Like Satan he flies across and soon 
there is a tremendous scattering of feathers. The as- 
sembly disbands to the last man, and the insulted male 
brings his culprit home victoriously and sternly. They 
must have made peace immediately after the battle; 
ostensibly the female was greatly impressed by the 
male’s outburst, for the nest was rebuilt, in which proc- 
ess none of the previous materials were used but en- 
tirely new ones—this appealed especially to me; then 
new eggs were laid and hatching began anew, and so 
far as I know the marriage proceeded normally from 
that time.” 

Faith laughed*heartily. “Well, the male dove made 
short shrift of the matter,” she said; “the monster, I 
think of him as cruel and rebellious. Do you consider 
him worth emulating? I do not.” 


’ 


“Not exactly worth emulating,’ replied Faber, 
smirking; “but there was, after all, something gratify- 
ing in his conduct. In fact you can even envy him a 
little.” 

Laughing, they parted for the night. 


On the following morning Faber had just prepared 


FABER 235 


to depart for the office when the doorbell rang shrilly 
three times. He perceived rapid and excited question- 
ing; immediately afterward Anna Faber rushed into 
his room and told him, with every manifestation of 
terror, that the jewelry had been stolen and that Eugene 
must accompany her at once. 


XVII 


ANNA FABER, having been hindered from leaving her 
home for a number of days by an attack of gout, had 
also been unable to see her nephew Valentine. Until 
now she had visited him almost daily or they had met in 
a coffee house. After Valentine had been shown out 
of the house by Hermann Hergesell he had first found 
shelter in a questionable quarter of the city. She had 
succeeded in discovering this retreat only with great 
effort and after she had put herself in touch with 
persons whose character did not inspire confidence. 
The young fellow, who had been accustomed to depend 
on the indulgent protection of his grandmother in ad- 
ventures that were partly foolhardy, partly dangerous, 
had been sullen toward her for a time, but was now 
very glad that her persistent inquiry had led her to 
him, almost as glad as Anna Faber herself. She pro- 
cured him respectable quarters at the home of a former 
acquaintance, the widow of a captain, and paid the rent 
three months in advance. 

Shortly before she became bedridden she had begun 
to worry about an obligation he had foolishly con- 


tracted, according to his contrite confession, and that he 
236 


FABER 237 


had to meet at a specific date, now near at hand. He 
knew so well how to depict the circumstances as urgent 
and his position as precarious that Anna Faber became 
anxiously concerned and turned to all sorts of persons 
for money. Among others also Eugene. Her anxiety 
increased while she was confined to her room and she 
determined to have him come to her on the evening 
that Hermann and Clara were attending the feast of 
the Hergesell family. It was possible to reach him by 
telephone in case of emergency, although that was a 
tedious process, during which she had to use a great 
deal of caution so as not to be overheard by Clara 
or her husband. In order to make it possible for him 
to visit her she had to gain the confidence of one of 
the servants, and with the help of a few little presents 
she succeeded in gaining the help of the maid and 
swearing her to secrecy. 

He came at about nine o’clock in the evening. She 
served him tea and sweets and while he ate with relish 
she asked him how matters stood in his own case. He 
complained and scolded; she comforted him and prom- 
ised to help him as soon as she could leave her bed. 
In order to divert him from his sorrow she told him 
about the event at the Hergesells’ and of the famous 
diamond jewelry that Clara was wearing in that circle 
on this occasion. He listened intently. He made her 
describe the jewelry and had to hear every detail. Anna 


238 FABER 


Faber sighed. She had never felt the pinch of penury 
so much as at this moment when looking into the face 
of the beloved boy, glowing with eagerness and ex- 
pectancy. She declared that if she possessed such a 
treasure he need not worry about money or debts. 

He had always had a predilection for jewelry and 
beautiful things; she liked this in him and for that 
reason answered quite innocently questions that be- 
came more and more penetrating and designing, which 
he put to her in a tone of childish naiveté. He asked, 
for instance, where Clara was likely to put the jewelry 
when she returned home; he considered no lock secure 
enough and remarked that so far as he knew there 
was no iron safe in the house. Anna Faber replied 
reassuringly that Clara would no doubt return the 
diadem to her mother-in-law the following day, so 
that the commode in her bedroom, in which her own 
jewelry was locked, was no doubt safe enough for 
those few hours. Then he inquired about the approxi- 
mate value of the diadem and gave way to all sorts 
of fantastic projects, based on what he would do if 
something so marvellous fell into his hands. Of course 
he would hide it carefully, say nothing, keep wholly 
out of sight, and ‚convert it into money in another 
country when the affair had blown over. Amused by 
his boasts and by dreams that were not wholly without 


FABER 239 


design, Anna Faber patted him on the cheeks and sent 
him on his way. 

The young couple did not return until the early 
morning hours. Clara remained in bed until noon, 
She had intended to deliver the jewelry to the coun- 
sellor’s wife in the afternoon, but it was four o’clock 
before she completed her toilet; then came Father De- 
siderio and remained until five, and as she had errands 
in town that could not be postponed she telephoned her 
mother-in-law and begged permission to return the dia- 
dem on the following day. She said nothing of this 
to her husband, who had several friends in for tea. 
As a matter of fact she did not like to discuss her 

affairs with him, for she hated his mistrustful inquiries 
and demands for particulars. 
Anna Faber heard her daughter leave the house ac- 
companied by the governess and the two children. She 
had just left her bed in order to walk about for exer- 
cise when the door opened and Valentine slipped into 
the room. He immediately threw his arms around 
her neck and smothered her protests and the exclama- 
‘tions caused by her fear with tender attentions. She 
Was very receptive to this and in a whisper asked 

the reason for his coming. He replied, also whisper- 
‚ing, that he had come only because he had been lone- 
‘some for her; he had suddenly been overcome by fear 


240 FABER 


and had made up his mind to go to her. This did not 
convince her, but she wanted to believe it, and so she 
believed it. 

He explained with some agitation that he had been 
waiting in front of the house for hours; that he had 
watched for the maid; that she had told him her young 
mistress had not yet left the house, but would depart 
at five o’clock. Her master would probably stay at 
home all day. Then he had waited until Clara came 
out of the door and had even followed her and the 
children for a distance in order to see where she was 
going, and from that to reach a conclusion about the 
duration of her absence. Anna Faber recognized too 
late the slyness and calculation in all these preparations. 
He naturally knew where Hergesell’s parents lived and 
as he had convinced himself that Clara was taking a 
different direction he could count with assurance on the: 
fact that the jewelry was still in her room. Only Her-' 
mann Hergesell remained to be feared. He actually 
feared this man very much, and Anna Faber asked. 
him how he dared enter the house when he knew 
his Uncle Hermann was at home, since the latter had. 
threatened to have him sent to the house of correction 
if ever he met him again in his house, and was cold 
and relentless enough to carry out his threat. Valen- 
tine replied, as if the true reason for his visit were 
being wrung from him, that it was possible that he 





FABER 241 


would have to go on a far journey for a long time in 
order to flee his creditors, and therefore he had merely 
come to bid good-bye to his grandmother. Anna Faber 
tried in vain to divert him from his plan; he insisted 
that it was necessary and merely promised to write 
her as soon as possible. He also pleaded with her not 
to betray him at any price and not to tell a soul that 
he had visited her, for perhaps his life depended on 
that. She agreed to this, and even promised it, car- 
ried away by his pleading and urging, and in spite of 
all his slyness he was guileless enough to believe him- 
self protected in this quarter. During this talk he 
became obviously more excited, opened the door sev- 
eral times in order to listen for Hergesell’s voice, and 
became severely frightened when another door opened. 
He then said that he would sneak into the kitchen 
and get some apples from the cook; he had seen lovely 
apples on the buffet before. Anna Faber rebuked his 
arrogance, although she saw that he was trembling, 
und offered to procure the apples for him; but this he 
‘efused, and sneaked out on tiptoe, meantime nodding 
o her with a smile and demanding, by gestures, that 
the let him do as he wished. Six or eight minutes 
lapsed before he returned. This time seemed inordi- 
ately long to Anna Faber, and when he slipped into 
er room again he was very pale, ostensibly from 
‘right, and said that some one had been standing at 


242 FABER 


the kitchen door and that he had hidden himself i1 
the rear passage. He then kissed his grandmother o1 
the cheeks and hands and left in the greatest haste 
It took Anna Faber a long time to recover from he 
consternation and anguish. 

Clara was very tired when she came home, took onl 
some cold food, and immediately went to bed. No 
until eight o’clock the next morning, after arising, di 
she go to her commode; then she immediately mad 
the discovery that the middle drawer was no longe 
locked and that the lock had been broken open. Sh 
tore open the drawer ; the diadem had disappeared. Sh 
felt such weakness in her limbs that she had to si 
down on the floor; she still felt faint and held on to th 
leg of a chair for support. Although she realized tha 
not a minute was to be lost, she had no idea to whor 
to turn. The whole horror of her own position cam 
to her in the moment of discovery. Exerting all he 
strength, she got up and stumbled into her mother 
room. She closed the door, leaned her back against 1 
and in hoarse gurgles uttered the words that conveye 
the news of her misfortune. Anna Faber clasped he 
hands together and then pressed them against he 
mouth. “Don’t raise a cry,” whispered Clara with 
wild look. “Hermann must know nothing. If He 
mann hears of this, I’ll throw myself out of the windoy 
Tell me: What shall I do? It could have happene 


FABER 243 


only yesterday afternoon, when I was away. Who 
was in the house? My servants are honest. Did you 
see or hear any one?” 

Light dawned in Anna F aber’s mind. She uttered 
1 hoarse cry and fell with her forehead on her bed. 
clara sprang toward her, hopeful conjectures rushing 
through her brain; she shook her mother by the shoul- 
Jers and Anna Faber, broken, troubled, desperate, 
nurmured the name of Valentine through her teeth: 
‘Confess it, tell it,’ Clara ordered her, and with angry 
riolence made her sit up. Anna Faber told the story. 

“To his house, at once,” hissed Clara, without let- 
ing her tell the story to the end. “You know where 
he scoundrel lives. Get yourself ready at once. And 
ot a word. Not a word to the servants; not a sound 
'o Hermann. Ah, he would like that! The family dia- 
lem gone and Clara the guilty one! He would like 
hat. Clara oppressed for life; a rue-laden sinner all 
ter life. Mother, I tell you there will be a terrible 
‘eckoning if that fellow has fled, if the jewelry is not 
‘found. Therefore fast, fast, fast! Try to see if you 
an walk; you must, there can be no alternative.” 

Anna Faber had never seen her daughter like this. 
What secrets were disclosed here, what bitter hatred, 
vhat burdens and torments of married life! She had 
ilways suspected and felt that Clara’s life with her 
wsband was rotten to the core, but she had regarded 





| 
| 
| 
| 


244 FABER 


Clara as a cool, domestic vixen with much contemptu- 
ous pride in her nature. But now this woman poured 
hot lava over her like a personified volcano, and she 
trembled, drew back fearfully, and kept silent. 

She was dressed in five minutes. In the meantime 
Clara had called an automobile. Luckily Hermann 
Hergesell had already left the house at seven o'clock; 
he had his riding hour to-day and so they avoided 
the danger of having to explain to him. Half an 
hour later both women found themselves in front of 
the chamber where Valentine lodged. The landlady, 
a lame, white-haired woman, who had come hurriedly 
with a desire to be of service and who greeted Anna 
Faber noisily, told them the young man was still asleep; 
he had been sleeping twelve hours; early in the evening 
he had come home, had caused her to prepare a lunch 
for him, and had told her that he would leave to-day 
on a journey of a few weeks; a friend with whom he 
meant to make the journey would call for him at noon. 

Clara demanded no further explanations and offered 
none. She knocked on the bolted door with her fist 
so that it echoed through the house. Anna Faber 
took the captain’s widow aside and whispered to her 
with eager eyes that her grandson had pre-empted an 
important document which they had to get back from 
him; a foolish act, it was, of no great moment; she 
had best pay no attention to it and return to her room. 





FABER 245 


Thus she got rid of the unwelcome witness of an inci- 
dent that was as disagreeable as it was shameful for 
all participants. 

In a very short time the door was opened in response 
to the thunderous knocking. But the man who opened 
it was in no wise just awakened out of his sleep; he 
was fully dressed and, it seemed, just about to leave. 
His cloak and hat lay on the table; beside it stood a 
leather travelling bag. When he saw his grandmother 
and aunt before him he became pale as death. Clara 
took her place before the door with crossed arms, 
keeping her eye on every movement Valentine made; 
‘Anna Faber, however, did the worst thing she could 
do; she rushed upon Valentine and with uplifted hands 
begged him to return the jewelry. She begged him on 
his honour and the good name of the family, her love 
for him and his future to forestall the results of his 
crime by a quick repentance. During her torrent of 
talk Valentine gained time for reflection. He took on 
an attitude as if he did not grasp what she wanted 
of him and as if he did not know why she accused 
him. First he seemed doubtful, then a decided horror 
showed in his face—not a bad accomplishment from a 
theatrical standpoint. “What? Am TI supposed to have 
done that?” he cried, and his eyes flashed with indigna- 
tion. “I? Well,when? Andhow? Andwhere? Am 
I a thief? How do you arrive at that? Naturally, 


246 FABER 


you can impute all sorts of wickedness to me because 
I am without protection, I have nobody, I am an 
orphan; I did not even get an honest family name from 
you. But I won’t, I won’t; I will look up my rights; 
you will see that ’ll protect myself.” 

Ostensibly he believed that he would make an im- 
pression on his grandmother while he raged thus and 
shed tears, and so divert suspicion from himself. As 
a matter of fact Anna Faber became confused at the 
picture of injured innocence that he made and looked 
helplessly at her daughter. Clara had not yet uttered 
a word. She regarded her nephew with a scornful 
sneer, her lips pressed tight together. Without moving 
from the door she said, and every word sounded as the 
cut of a knife: “I fear, Mother, that we won’t make 
much progress alone with this liar. The main thing 
is that I have him in custody and that he cannot escape 
me. The cab is still outside; ride as fast as possible 
for Eugene and bring him here. In the meantime I 
will stand sentinel here, and God help you, young fel- 
low, if you move.” 

Valentine gave her a timid look; her manner and 
her attitude caused him decided fear and it could be 
seen that this iron determination made him wonder 
whether to continue in his former tactics or to evolve. 
other means of escape. i | 

Anna Faber obeyed silently. She moved and acta 


FABER 247 


wholly mechanically. When she told Eugene, whom 
she fortunately found at home, what had happened, 
ier pain over her misplaced love broke out again in a 
riolent, almost excessive, manner. She threw herself 
lown on the sofa and sobbed. Eugene tried to calm 
rer, and although he was not an accomplished com- 
forter he at least succeeded in stopping her loud com- 
jlaints. Rather confused by what he had heard and 
not knowing exactly, in the moment, what he should 
Jo, he left to hunt for Faith. He found her putting 
Christopher’s room in order; Christopher had already 
sone to school. In a few words he told her what had 
happened and that his mother had come to him for help. 
He gave the appearance of not wishing to undertake 
anything without her advice, and his manner of pre- 
senting the situation to her suggested that he meant 
to convey to her the unbounded confidence he had in 
her. f 

She looked down and said: “It will be very hard to 
get him to confess. As he has already tied himself up 
in a lie he cannot well go back. It should have been 
treated differently.” 

“How, Faith? Please speak. It is a terrible situa- 
tion. Especially for my sister... .” 

“When such persons are quickly thrust into a strange 
environment it sometimes has a peculiar effect on 
them,” she replied; “they lose their sense of security 


248 FABER 


and betray themselves more easily. Do bring him here. 
In the meantime keep your eyes on him.” 

He nodded assent. There was a contented respect in 
the look he gave her. 

A few minutes later he was sitting with his mother 
in the cab. When they entered the long, dark chamber 
they saw the following scene. Clara had seated her- 
self on a chair at one end near the door and now sat 
motionless with her arms crossed over her breast, her 
face colourless, her look immovably fixed before her; 
at the other end Valentine sat on the edge of his dis- 
ordered bed, a cigarette in a corner of his mouth and 
ostensibly engaged in paring his finger nails. He had 
not seen Faber for six years, at a time when he was 
not yet ten years old, but recognized him at once; no 
sooner had he seen him than he arose, smiled in a most 
ingratiating manner, came forward a few steps, and 
offered his hand. He had that crooked or slanting 
look that was noticeable on the photograph that stood 
in Anna Faber’s room. Beyond that Faber was struck 
by the almost feminine gentleness in his features. His 
resemblance to his father was so marked that Eugene, 
with a sudden shock, thought he saw his brother before 
him in the flesh. Assuredly this resemblance was partly | 
responsible for Anna Faber’s overflowing love, for | 
even after so many years Roderick was still nearest her | 


heart. 





FABER 249 
Faber acted as if he did not notice the extended hand 


‘and Valentine shrugged his shoulders in sad recogni- - 


tion. He wore an elegant fall suit of grey with care- 
fully pressed trousers, brown silk hose with brown ox- 
fords and a violet tie, faultlessly knotted. Despite his 
enticing personality, there was something clownish and 
perverse in the man-of-the-world attitude of this lad, 
not yet sixteen years old. 

“Get yourself ready to come with me,” said Faber 
briefly. “And you”’—turning to Clara and his mother 
—“examine this room minutely, every corner, the bed, 
the floor, the walls, the clothing, and that bag. I shall 
expect you to join me at the house. The rest will take 
care of itself.” 

Clara rose; Valentine took hat and cloak, looked 
Faber in the eyes with a glance of simple inquiry and 
then followed him without objection. At first, in the 
corridor, he walked behind Faber but the latter indi- 
cated with a commanding motion that he was to keep 
by his side. When they had descended the three nar- 
tow flights and reached the ground floor Valentine 


suddenly rushed forward with lightning rapidity; os- 


tensibly he had reckoned on this opportunity for flight, 
but he had underestimated Faber’s alertness and pre- 
caution; he had not yet taken two steps when Faber 
grasped his shoulder with an iron grip. He said not a 
word. Valentine again shrugged his shoulders in his 


250 FABER 


sadly resigned fashion, but his expression became more 
and more gloomy. 

He sat back in a corner of the cab and dug his hands 
down into the pockets of his coat. His stiff hat was 
thrust down over his forehead. Upon leaving the cab, 
the iron grip again encircled his arm; Faber sent the car 
back for the use of the women; he made Valentine pre- 
cede him on the stairs and upon reaching his floor, and 
the dining-room, motioned him silently to a chair; Val- 
entine sat down and Eugene chose a seat where none of 
his movements would escape him. Faith did not seem 
to be at home; this was the hour when she usually 
made her purchases for the household. 

His face reflected disgust and deep agitation, re- 
sulting from the extraordinarily tense circumstances. 
He spoke not a word to his nephew. The Cardano 
was still lying on the table from the night before; he 
opened the book and tried to read. 

Valentine had not removed his cloak. He held his 
hat on his knees and turned it slowly in his hands. 
He looked out at the rain and at times his weak lips 
moved convulsively. He moved several times to take 
his cigarette case from his vest pocket, but obviously 
did not dare to smoke. After a time he put his hat 
on the arm of the sofa and crossed his legs, as if to 
give the appearance of ease. Then he produced his 
kid gloves, smoothed them on his knee, and rounded 


FABER 251 


his mouth as if to whistle. It could be seen that the 
silence was wholly incomprehensible and even uncanny 
to him. His crooked or slanting look turned more and 
more often toward the silent Faber. 

An hour and a half passed in this manner. Finally 
the doorbell rang. The kitchen maid opened the door. 
Anna Faber and Clara entered the room. One look 
was sufficient to tell Faber that their search had been 
useless. Anna Faber, exhausted, seated herself in a 
corner. Clara approached her brother and said: “Noth- 
ing. As might have been expected. Before we left 
there came that certain person with whom this little 
fellow probably meant to have his outing. A female. 
Rouged and perfumed to a disgusting degree. She 
became tremendously frightened when she saw us and 
wanted to scurry away. I interned her with the land- 
lady with a hint at police interference. And you, Eu- 
gene, what have you done?” 

The question had a categorical ring. Faber arose 
and replied: “I have been waiting. I told you there 
that I would wait for you.” 

“Waiting!” cried Clara, and her features suddenly 
took on an indescribably wild and contemptuous ex- 
pression. “Waiting. For what? Why? I have no 
time. If I do not leave this room with the Hergesell 
jewelry, then my way lies in a different direction than 
home—now you know that. That’s the end of the 


252 FABER 


story. That’s the end of the matrimonial idyll in which 
the father-in-law provides rent and mother-in-law pro- 
vides honey-sweet protection. There’s a man sneaking 
about in my house, an orator for special occasions, a 
director of the cultural world order, who would expand 
with conceit like a frog if I were humbled before him 
by one of my blood. When a theorist finds that events 
support his view you get hell on earth. Descent, race, 
breeding, tradition, ideals—this is always echoing in 
your ears, and from morning until night you feel your- 
self less than the dust and not worthy of loosening the 
latchets of the shoes of such a pillar of national cul- 
ture. If that were but the worst! Who can put into 
words what is the worst? Living together without 
love, do you grasp it? And the fear of it, the fear, 
day and night, of the step, and the voice, and the word, 
which you already know. How horrible to fear the 
word that you know before it is even spoken! It may 
be good or evil, you detest it. You may well say: You 
wished this, took it upon yourself, it is your affair and 
belongs to no one else. That is true; who but myself 
alone shall I make responsible for my cursed life? I 
and my insolent demands, my will-o’-the-wisp manner, 
my foolish wishes and, God forgive me, the right to 
do everything and to say everything. System, system. 
There sits one’’—she pointed with her extended arm 
to Valentine—“a real exhibit, a recommendation for 


FABER 253 


the system. Just look at him, Mother, and be proud 
of your achievement. A marvellous example; our 
family has never been able to produce anything else 
so wonderful. A regular thief and jailbird; marvel- 
lous! And all because of consideration, kindness, sac- 
rifice, spiritual freedom, and understanding, all those 
fine things out of which our holiday orator makes us 
a halter. Oh, I can’t go on, I can’t go on!” 

She pressed her fists against her temples and with 
closed eyes shook her head for several seconds. Faber 
was strongly affected to see the woman who had com- 
mand of herself, was whimsically reserved and sparing 
in expressing her emotions, so unnerved. His eyes saw 
at once the suffering of such an existence, and he stood 
there as if stunned. This increased Clara’s bitterness. 
“Well, what is to be done?” she demanded of him. 
“Are you also going down on your knees before this 





gallows bird? That is too much for me. Now it’s 
either—or, my dear fellow— 
by the collar of his cloak and pulled him from his chair 
with such violence that he fell on his knees. “Out with 
the booty,” she cried, in a voice that had grown hoarse; 


“out with the jewelry or I will crush your vile and 


„ 


She grasped Valentine 


| 


pretty face.” 

| “For heaven’s sake, Clara!’ cried Anna Faber. The 
young woman actually presented a terrifying aspect 
as she stood bent over the horrified Valentine. Con- 





254 FABER 


tempt, hatred, and fear distorted her features unrecog- 
nizably. 

“Stop!” Eugene commanded. “Stop, Clara.” He 
stepped between her and Valentine and turned to the 
latter. “Now you will please empty all your pockets,” 
he said coldly. “Don’t hesitate, don’t think it over; 
there is no longer any escape.” 

Valentine jumped up quickly. His face turned white 
as snow. Everything sympathetic and ingratiating had 
vanished from it in an instant. “No,” he burst out in 
a gurgle, and backed against the wall; “that won’t hap- 
pen. I won’t do that. Not in any case will I do that. 
Let me go, I tell you.” 

Faber stepped up to him and replied threateningly: 
“Tf you don’t do it Tl have to do it for you. But 
it won’t be so pleasant for you.” 

Valentine’s eyes, gleaming like yellow opals, were 
riveted on Faber and filled with defiance and despera- 
tion. He bent forward, squeezed his shoulders and 
back into a corner of the wall, put his right hand into 
a pocket of his trousers, pulled out a revolver, and 
confronted Faber with it. It was a six-chambered 
Browning; Faber saw the round black holes close in 
front of him. He hesitated and became a trifle paler. 

Anna Faber screamed shrilly. 

At that moment the door to the corridor opened 
and Faith stepped on the threshold. She had just re- 


FABER 255 


"turned from her morning errands; her hat was still 


‚on her head, a simple black straw hat with a velvet 


"band, very becoming to her. Anna Faber’s scream 


"brought her in. She took in at a glance what was 


happening and what had happened. Without hesitat- 
ing she stepped up to Valentine, seized his convulsively 
outstretched hand, deprived him of the revolver with 


a quick motion and handed it to Faber, at the same 


time keeping her eyes on the young man, who was 


startled by her unexpected appearance and trembling 


“in every limb. She put her hand on his shoulder and 


said to him in a low and firm voice: “Come with me. 


We have something to talk over.” 











He did not resist. With bowed head he followed 
her into the adjoining room, a small space that led 
into Martina’s bedchamber. She locked the door. 

Those who remained behind looked at each other 
and did not take their eyes off one another for some 
time. Clara stood dumb and unmoved in the middle 
of the room. Anna Faber had put her head on the 
arm of the chair; her robust body betrayed a deep 
relaxation and the expression of her face seemed to 
indicate a disillusion that could not be overcome. 

They heard the voice of Faith in a monotonous, reg- 
ular murmuring. Then silence followed for a time; 
then they heard Valentine’s voice only for a moment, 
like a faint whisper. Then Faith’s voice came again. 


256 FABER 


Faber stood at the window and with his index finger 
traced the letter F in the light mist of the window pane, 
making the single letter more than twenty times. He 
listened for Faith’s voice. 

After half an hour the door opened. In the room 
beyond, Valentine was kneeling before a chair against 
which he had pressed his face, and sobbing silently. 
Faith came out, holding the case in her hand. It was 
open so that the wonderful gems could be seen. Si- 
lently, with an earnest manner and an earnest look 
she turned it over to Clara. The latter said not a word, 
She simply gave Faith her hand. She bowed her head 
while doing so; it seemed as if she were making 
obeisance before a superior and acknowledged the su- 
periority. Anna Faber sat there with her wide-open. 
eyes moist and gleaming. 

Eugene observed Faith silently from top to toe as if 
she had become a stranger to him and moved far away 
from him. Smiling weakly, she shook her head, 
pointed, with a hasty gesture that he understood, to. 
Valentine in the adjoining room, and then went out. 

Faber took his mother by the arm and drew her to 
the window. “You must find some place for the boy 
where he will have an occupation and be under observa- | 
tion,” he said. “Don’t let him be alone in the next few | 
days, but be curt in your intercourse with him. Do you 
know of a suitable sanctuary? It is perhaps the last 


| 





FABER 257 


chance still to make a useful man out of him. I think 
to-day’s experience will not pass over him without leav- 
ing some trace.” 

| Anna Faber replied that for some time she had 
| been weighing the plan of placing him in an agricultural 
‘institute, the director of which she knew, and with 
whom she had already corresponded about this matter. 
| Valentine had not been averse to the idea when she 
talked it over with him; now he would probably agree 
| gladly. She would drive out with him even to-day. 
Clara had gone. A quarter of an hour later Eugene 
heard his mother and Valentine also pass through the 
‘corridor and depart. He stood in reflection for a 
while, then walked through the rooms of the house 
in order to find Faith. She was in her room, which 
adjoined that of Christopher. The door was but 
slightly closed; he knocked timidly and went in. 





XVII 


THE room had the same dimensions as Faber’s bed- 
room and likewise had a single window. There was 
a studied lack of decoration; beyond the most neces- 
sary furniture there was no concession to leisurely 
comfort, likewise no picture, nothing colourful, not 
even flowers. Faith herself had gradually given the 
room the character of a cell; this was compatible with 
her habits. Perhaps she did not have an attachment 
for objects or did not wish to be reminded by them 
of the past. In any event this spareness aroused 
Faber’s astonishment, especially when contrasted with 
the other rooms, where Martina’s love for bright col- 
ours found expression. Here, obviously, Martina’s 
power was at an end. 

Faith was standing before an open chest of drawers, 
about to remove an apron. She turned her face to- 
ward him with an inquiring look. Her black eyebrows, 
which came down low over her eyes, rose in surprise; 
it displeased her to have him enter her room. 

As if to suppress her agitation and give her no time 


to speak he walked quickly toward her, grasped her 
258 


FABER 259 


hands, and said: “How did you manage it, Faith? 
How did you succeed in thawing out such a taciturn 
character ?”’ 

She withdrew her hands. “How can I repeat all I 
said?” she asked, shaking her head. “That is impos- 
sible. You say what comes to you at the moment; 
you have to depend on your good fairy. Accidentally, 
or, if you wish, instinctively, I found the spot where I 
could touch him. But if I had to do it a second time 
I’d fail. It is a sad thing to look into such a dissi- 
pated sinner’s face. It demeans even us. No, I could 
not do it again. I’d rather go away.” 

She shuddered while thinking of it. Faber held her 
in his glance. She seemed to fear his look and no 
less his silence, for she continued hastily: “I avoided 
holding out any promises to him, I hardly mentioned 
the difficult position in which he had put his grand- 
mother and his aunt. I begged him chiefly not to de- 
stroy himself. Something or other about me seemed 
to impress him; I used that to assure him that I thought 
much of him and expected a great deal from him, in 
contrast to others, and that he probably did not know 
himself how much good and how much ability were 

“hidden inside him. And similar things. I treated 
him with respect, even treated his foolhardy crime with 
“respect. He stared at me continuously and his lack 


260 FABER 


of confidence lay before me like a big obstacle. You 
think ill of me for treating his crime respectfully and 
think I tried a trick on him—” 

“Oh, no! How can you think that!” said Faber 
softly. 

“When any one does something so incomprehensible 


—that is to say incomprehensible from our standpoint 


—he then takes a whole fate on his shoulders. It is 
like a disease which he carries for life, an everlasting 
leprosy. This eventually calls for a certain amount of 
courage, a certain resolution. I told him that, in order 
to explain my respect for him. It is, I will admit, re- 
spect of a cruel and sinister sort and I took pains to 
tell him that we extend it solely to those to whom we 
‚ would like to give respect of a higher and nobler sort. 
He began to believe me, and with his confidence to start 
with I could feel my way to his conscience. I am confi- 


you will discover his deep and powerful need to be’ 


respected. It is deeper and stronger than that of love; 
this is true, for I have thought a great deal about it. 


If men would respect each other freely there would 


not be a hundredth part of the suffering which is now 
brought about by love. I am convinced of it. Are 
you?” 

“It may be,” said Faber. 


They stood there, both suddenly silent. Faber made 


FABER 201 


a movement that he did not expect himself, acting as 
if in a dream. He swung his arms around Faith 
and drew her to him. He had closed his eyes and 
sighed. Faith was unable to withstand the power 
of his arms; it carried her away; flushed and benumbed 


by passion, she too closed her eyes. Her head fell on 


his shoulder like ripe fruit off a tree. And thus they 
kissed. A moment later she uttered a suppressed cry 
as if she had been wounded; moaning, she tore her- 
self out of his embrace, and with a face that seemed 
to have turned white from intense heat raised her 
folded hands prayerfully to her forehead as if taking 
a vow. 

Faber staggered out with the steps of a man who is 
fighting to regain his balance. 


XIX 


Tuey did not meet one another again until evening. 
A letter came from Martina; Faber read it, put it 
down; an hour later he read it again, as if he had 
forgotten what it contained. He left it lying on his 
work-table and when he re-entered the room he re- 
garded it as he would a dead thing. 

The letter held nothing but news, stated in clean-cut 
essentials, after Martina’s manner. Faber’s lips took 
on a painful expression as he read aloud a sentence 
that had accidentally struck his notice: “When we 
have completed our work, the Princess and I, we take 
a walk and then usually lose our way in the dreadful 


yellow mist, and hold each other fast, so that we won’t — 


lose each other. A mist, after all, is the worst thing 
in the world.” 

Martina had also written to Faith. After reading 
it Faith saw things more clearly. Martina informed 
her that she would return at the end-ef the week; that 
is, in four days. This was also in her letter to Eugene; 
but he had not grasped it, or perhaps, in reading it, 
four days may have seemed as ten years to him. Much 

262 


FABER 263 


may happen in four days; in fantasy they may be with- 
out end. 

“Your mother will come back soon,” said Faith to 
Christopher, while sitting with him near the lamp; 
“Saturday evening.” 

Christopher turned up his nose. “I think you are 
lying,” he replied; “you never lie, but when you speak 
about mother and father you lie often.” 

“Why should I lie?” asked Faith, reproachfully. 
“You are an unkind person and don’t weigh your 
words.” 

“Oh, you!” Christopher countered, and made fists 
out of hands that still bore evidence of playing in the 
dirt. “You people always act as if you are in a con- 
spiracy. You are all so secretive.” 

“You? Whom do you mean by you?” 

“Well, you grown-ups. You are so proud of your 
conspiracy. If one has enemies one offers them battle 
_ bravely. But you constantly shun one another. Why? 
Call the enemy into the open.” But when he saw 
Faith’s sad face he patted her hand apologetically. 
“Don’t let it worry you,” he comforted her patroniz- 
ingly; “of course you can’t act differently than the 
others. Do you know, you really look foolish to me 

to-day ?” 
— “Foolish? How do I look foolish?” asked Faith, 
with a forced smile. 


264. FABER 


“Yes, as if you had forgotten to do your lessons 
and had been punished with extra work.” 

“Oh, come, Christopher! What silly ideas!” 

“Now you are lying again!” cried Christopher tri- 
umphantly, pointing his finger at her. “You are lying, 
deep down inside of you. I can see it. You simply 
won't let a boy be right. So you lie. What is really 
going on in the house, Faith?” he asked in a changed, 
almost mysterious tone, extending his arms with a 
gesture of general disapproval. -‘“Tell me, what is the 
matter? Things don’t please me any more. Every- 
thing is so peculiar, even about father. . . .” Ostensi- 
bly his pride checked him from saying more and thereby 
betraying his injured feelings. On Faith’s admoni- 
tion he dipped both hands into the basin of hot water 
that she had brought him, while troubled lines appeared 
on his forehead. 

Faith did not leave the room until Christopher lay 
in bed and she had put out the light. In the corridor 
Faber stood before her. He stepped to one side and. 
let her pass. She went into the living-room, looked 
absently about her, then moved to pick up a majolica 
vase in order to remove faded flowers; the vase fell 
from her hand and broke into bits on the floor. She 


looked down at the pieces and a tremor ran through 
her body. 





FABER 265 


Faber had heard the crash and now came in. He 
knelt down to pick up the pieces. 

“Let be,” she said. “You will hurt yourself.” 

Fe looked up. She stood before him, so strangely 
tall. “Faith!” he whispered. 

She raised her hand as if to ward off something. 
Her face became rigid as a mask. “It must not be,” 
she said softly and decidedly. “If otherwise, then I 
have to go. We won’t make anything tragic of it—not 
that. Let foolishness remain foolishness. But don’t 
let us speak of it, don’t let us think of it; let us erase 
it. There is no choice. Do get up.” 

He obeyed and stood up. “Good,” he said; “very 
good.” And he began to pace back and forth. “You 
cannot speak otherwise, or act otherwise, or be other- 
wise. I understand. Foolishness? No, I won’t agree 
to that. There are too many entanglements. Do not 
ask the impossible. At the moment I don’t know how 
I am going to live on. I must keep cool. But I would 
like to have an understanding with you.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s better to keep 


silent,” she murmured. 


“Enough of silence!’ he cried, aroused. “For six 


years I was silent. Faith, have pity, pity!” 


“What word is that: pity?” she replied, with a 


troubled brow. “A word without standing, one that 


266 FABER 


you yourself hate. I don’t like to hear it, that word; 
and another I dare not hear.” 

“Dare, dare,” he mocked; “that no longer counts. 
We have passed over that stile.” 

“Not that Iam aware of,” said Faith coolly. “There 
is no stile, there is a wall that reaches to heaven.” 

Faber placed himself before her, his arms hanging 
stiffly at his sides, his body, with the broad chest, al- 
most unnaturally erect. “We will be honest with one 
another, Faith,” he said, and drew a deep breath. 
“You are worth that to me; I hope I am worth that 
to you. Each of us has already suffered too much 
life and experience and has fought too hard with Fate 
to think of deluding ourselves with specious pretences, 
Likewise we are in no position to do so. There must 
be a more direct way, something practicable and real- 
izable, not a murky mist in which we grope about 
without reason. So tell me, and tell me with all the 
truth that you have in your soul: Do you feel anything 
for me? Don’t answer—don’t answer yet! I am not 
asking, Do you love me? No, I don’t ask that; that 
shall not pass my lips, that again calls up a world of 
responsibility, of error and forced decisions. I merely 
want to know whether you would favour me, whether 
you have a place for me in your inner.self. Don’t say 
no while you stare at that wall as if you are bewitched; 
say no only if your heart says no.” 


FABER 267 


She blushed and turned pale, tried to speak, pressed 
her lips together, and remained silent. He stared at 
her. She met his look; her eyes reflected amazement 
and sorrow. ‘What do you want?” she asked finally; 
“why this persuasion? Why this elaborate argument? 
For an affair? I am not the person suited for that.” 

“Oh, you evade me,” he interrupted, complaining 
bitterly; “and I begged you so earnestly for a frank 
and direct answer. What use is anything else to me!’ 
“It is whimsical of you, Eugene Faber,” she replied, 
with an unusually feminine, unusually melancholy, 
smile; “whimsical of you to insist on it. Could we 
face each other like this if I had need to answer you? 


Tf so, our talk could not even have begun. Do you 


need my ‘Yes’? Do you seriously fear my ‘No’? Such 





questions are mere cruelty, because they handicap the 


‚other if he shows weakness. I am not a coward and 






I will stand to account for everything I do. Why 
should I not admit that your being and your manner 
have captured me, have disturbed my peace, more than 
I could foretell? ‘This was not a diversion, it was not 
a design or even a wish; it just happened. And now 
we are left to adjust matters. I do not actually hold 
, myself so dear that I say I am too good for an affair. 
‘That is, after all, only a word—affair—lI retract it, if 
you wish; I used it because I thought of its brief 
duration, and we are not justified in asking that the 


268 FABER 


beautiful and that which moves us and makes us better 
and richer should survive indeterminably. Therefore I 
am not deceived about myself. But you, Eugene, you 
are deceiving yourself about yourself. What drives 
you to me is not myself, and I can swear to you, even 
more impressively than you to me, that I try to be 
honest, to deal honestly with you and with myself. 
You know what I mean—oh, you know very well. I 
live under a shadow, but I can free myself from it 
when I so desire; you cannot even conquer the im- 
prisoned man who holds you, and in order to give him 
proof of yourself and obtain for yourself a semblance 
of liberty and happiness you need me, you have to cling 
fast tome. Not that it was so planned and calculated— 
my God, I know that! No, it is the surge, the dis- 
pensation of Providence, the blood, I know, I know, we 
cannot help it, I know, we cannot see through it; but I 
cannot do that, I won’t do that, I dare not. No, never, 
never!” 

She was trembling all over. She took one of the 
fragments that lay on the table and broke it apart. 
There was something exalted in her expression and 
attitude, a proud passion, which made her very beau- 
tiful. Faber kept his look riveted on her in speechless 
surprise. What she said was obviously wholly unex- 
pected and demoralizing to him. He put his hand to 
his head and, looking down, replied, first haltingly, 


rae N 
En: 


FABER 269 


then with more and more haste and emotion: “An ap- 
prehension. Naturally it could be so construed. There 
is something seductive about it. Yes, certainly. But 
you have revealed much more of your character and 
personality to me than you think. I experience strange 
things: a woman who makes me forget that I am a 
man; another sex; a creature from elsewhere. Do I 
express myself clearly? Is this perhaps a new de- 
velopment, not known in my day, a newly evolved 
species? How foolishly I talk! I could listen to you 
to the end of my days, and when you scourge me 
with words it feels like a healing ointment. You may 
cite reasons, all you wish; causes, as many as you can 
think of; but I will not let you go, Faith; I am a 
lost man if you repulse me. Whatever it is that urges 
me on, be it this or that, I will not seek to fathom 
‘it, I put it behind me. I need you now; in this moment 
‘of my existence I need you above all other things; 
‘that I found you cannot be the work of the devil; it is 
God’s work, so do not put God in the wrong. The 
light. The light, Faith! I was in darkness. I was 
‚cold. Men were to me a heap of debris; the whole 
sky above was empty and black as the night. I doubt 
the only thing that remains to me; Asia is to me the 
‚land of horrors; Europe, the land of murder; there is 
no longer any Martina, the whole light of love is ex- 
tinguished; there are demands that I must guess. And 


| 











270 FABER 


then that night, that one night! I cannot talk about 
that. An embrace and then—as if one had plunged 
from a tower. No longer any light, any stop. Oh, 
what did I do the next day! I gave away the ring, 
Martina’s ring. I must confess it to you. I gave the 
ring away—to a wanton!” 

Faith clasped her hands together without a word. 

“Don’t think ill of me,’’ he continued in a hoarse 
whisper, although he had uttered his words in an un- 
usually ringing tone until now. “I had nothing more 
to do with that person. Don’t think ill of me. Save 
me, Faith. Else I don’t know what all this will lead 
to. I can’t be held accountable for anything. Give 
myself back to me, the confidence in myself, give me 
back my years, my stolen years.” 

Faith watched him fixedly and tensely, with her lips 
trembling imperceptibly. There was no doubt that she 
was being carried along against her will by the torrent 
of his words, his personality, his desperation, and that 
she was defending herself with the force of her in- 
stinct, like a tree with far-reaching roots holding out 
against the storm. With her left hand raised a little 
she replied in her hoarse voice, that sounded almost 
broken: “Then don’t you see how impossible my posi- 
tion becomes here if I give way even with one thought? | 
I stand here like a soldier at his post; I cannot leave 
it and cannot betray it. I will not take the child into 


FABER rt 


consideration, although you must guess what it means 
to me to hear such words when your child and Mar- 
tina’s is sleeping in the next room; but you have for- 
gotten the relationship that exists between Martina and 
me. I told you about it, but you seem to have for- 
gotten it. If, after all that, I gave you as much as my 
hand it would be a breach of confidence which would 
lose me my self-respect. So long as Martina suspects 
nothing, your hands are as much bound as mine. Or 
did you have the intention of deceiving her, and de- 
ceiving her with me? And then contrition, confession, 
or no confession, the customary banal comedy? It 
seems to me we are too good for that; above all, Mar- 
tina is too good. Permit us to think it over, Eugene 
Faber; let us reach a sane decision. Martina shall 
know everything. Then let her decide, and everything 
will depend on her decision. So you see how far I 





have gone.” 


| She suddenly clasped her hands before her face, and 
her whole body again trembled as if in a chill. 








_ Faber did not move. His face fell strangely and 
he sank his head slowly. 

_ As if ashamed of her weakness Faith let her hands 
drop again and with a remarkable rush of cheerful- 
ness asked: “Will you tell her? Shall I tell her? Or 
Shall we wait until she sees it for herself? It won’t 
take long, not an hour.” 


| 





272 FABER 


Before Faber could reply, the door opened softly 
and Christopher appeared on the threshold in bare feet 
and his nightgown. He said in a sleepy and indignant 
voice: ‘Somebody called so loudly that I woke up. 
Who called ?” 

Faith took him silently by the hand and led him 
back to his room. She did not return. When the boy 
was asleep she went into her room, barred the door 
and sank down on her bed as if lifeless. 

Faber wandered from room to room at the other 
end of the house and it was late in the night when he 
finally sought his bed, where dawn found him still 
lying with open eyes. 


XX 


WHEN Faber was descending the steps of the Law 
Courts the following noon some one touched him on 
the shoulder from behind. He turned and saw before 
him one of his companions on the journey home, who 
smilingly offered his hand. This was a young man 
named Baltesser, whom Faber never cared much for 
because of his overbearing manner; in fact the other 
comrades had composed a saying about him: “Baltes- 
ser knows it better.” He was tall and slender, but 
careless in his bearing ; he had a refined, smooth-shaven 
face, with furtive and undependable eyes and one of 
those deceptive high foreheads which are less indica- 
tive of mental capabilities than of greed and selfish- 
ness. 

Baltesser seemed to have been waiting for Faber. 
At first the conversation was carried on with reserve 
on both sides. DBaltesser, whose intuition was very 
keen, and who obviously noticed that Faber was in 
an unusual mood, a disturbed condition which might 
serve the object he had in view, groped about care- 
fully to learn Faber’s interests. 

Since his return from Asia he had flung himself 

273 


274 FABER 


into politics with embittered passion and in a short 
time had raised himself by word and: deed to leader- 
ship of the radical and youthful party of the left, 
which took the Russian Terror for its model. Faber 
had read his name in the newspapers—mostly in con- 
nection with that of a certain Peter Arquint, a literary 
man—as well as a number of fiery speeches which he 
had made on various occasions. He had too little 
feeling for Baltesser, however, to let these matters 
occupy his thoughts. 

They walked together for a short distance. Not 
without deftness did Baltesser weave his net, for he 
counted not only on the suspected mental disturbance 
of Faber, but also on his spiritual make-up, so differ- 
ent from that of many of his fellows. Faber listened 
half bored, half astonished, and accompanied Baltesser 
because ostensibly he preferred any way except that 
which led home. | 

The name of the Princess entered the conversation, 
Baltesser pronounced it with undisguised enmity. He 
characterized the work of the Princess as emotional 
theatricalism in the grand style, which had the object 
of throwing sand into the eyes of the poor, suffering 
people and blinding them to the true reasons for theif 
need and their slavery. Such attempts of the bourgeois- 
capitalist world to draw a conciliatory veil over the 
abyss, on the edge of which it carried on its evil 


FABER 275 


activities, were as old as history. Thereby seeing eyes 
were to be blinded, and the blind were to be induced 
to praise, something that was unhappily achieved, in 
this case with enormous foreign aid and shameless 
palaver about humanity. Many people, probably inter- 
ested stockholders, were talking fantastically about a 
new religion, of which the Princess was said to have 





become a sort of apostle; religion—as if that were just 
what was most wanted, as if heads were not already 
sufficiently dull. And now three square kilometres of 
additional land were to be placed at the disposal of the 





Children’s City, as well as an appropriation for new 
buildings; the government could suddenly find money 
for that purpose and yet calmly look on while dozens of 
thuman beings existed in one hole in the tenements of 
‘the suburbs, not to speak of those who lay about the 
‘pavements without any shelter. 

So far as Faber could understand, a widespread 
demonstration was being proposed, what Baltesser 
called a registration of the people’s will. Baltesser no 
doubt knew what part Martina Faber played in the 
Children’s City and in the service of the Princess. This 
no doubt was the reason why they wanted to make 
sure of Faber ; it would make an impression if he joined 
the opponents of the Princess and her community. 
Perhaps they were building up their hopes of winning 
him because of reports that Faber’s married life after 


276 FABER 


his return had been disturbed by quarrels which were 
connected with Martina Faber’s activity. 

Faber understood that also. If he did not become 
wholly clear on that point he must at least suspect it. 
In the past anything that had the flavour of politics 
was a horror to him. In former years he had often 
argued about it with Fleming, who saw in Faber’s 
disaffection an unmanly quietism, a comfortable and 
cowardly rejection of the demands which the common 
good was entitled to make on the individual. Faber 
had possessed no other argument against this but his 
aversion. Once he remarked: “Nothing clean can be 
made with dirty hands. Politics is dirt.” Fleming had 
shaken his head and replied: “That sounds like an 
epigram; moreover, it is false. Every gardener has 
dirty hands. Do you therefore despise his flowers? 
You can despise him only if he attempts to offer you 
sweepings for flowers.” 

Baltesser was a shrewd advocate of his cause. That 
taciturnity and pride which made him disagreeable 
company on other occasions was exactly what helped 
him, by contrast, to victory in cases such as this, Every 
one felt flattered when he decided to speak. But 
Faber became acquainted with a much more irresistible 
pleader in Arquint, for feeling apathetic and aimless 
that day, he had allowed himself to be led to Baltesser’s 
house, which was located in the north of the town and 


FABER 277 


adjoined a warehouse that served at times as a place of 
assembly. They met Arquint at the door; he was carry- 
ing a portfolio filled with writings. He was a small, 
‘sinewy, nervous man, with hollow cheeks giving him 
the look of an ascetic, and a jerky, mocking, challeng- 
ing way of speaking. Beside him Baltesser seemed 
phlegmatic. He was returning from a tour undertaken 
for the purpose of agitation, and when he spoke of it 
every muscle in his face became tense and his cheeks 
turned pale. All about the inhospitable room lay 
brochures, with startling yellow covers and challenging 
titles; on the wall hung a portrait of Karl Marx, 
surrounded by pine branches. Once the door opened 
and a dark-haired young woman peered in, but disap- 
peared after a look from Baltesser, who glanced at her 
rather carelessly over his shoulder. 

Faber looked searchingly first at the one young man, 
then at the other. His expression and his attitude gave 
no indication what impression they made on him. This 
reserved and inscrutable manner forced Peter Arquint 
to disclose more of himself, as if he had become inter- 
ested or curious. When Baltesser mentioned the move- 
ment against the Children’s City Arquint laughed dryly 
and in a highly peculiar manner expatiated on this un- 
dertaking, founded by friends of humanity and, as he 
admitted, manifesting much human friendliness. But 
one could no longer expect human friendliness to 


278 FABER 


serve, he said, and a prophetic look came into his eyes; 
what distinguished the present age from all others and 
put the special stamp of destiny on it was the bank- 
ruptcy of the heart, which the age favoured and which 
could be recognized everywhere; out of this it had to 
build consistently, create its power, its courage, its 
ideals—not out of the miserable remnants of a van- 
ished and exhausted world. Naturally the strength to 
see this and to wish for this powerful new order called 
for the courage of a devotee; there was nothing left to 
kindness and forbearance and help for suffering and 
love and whatever else one called the false remedies 
for Europe’s agony of one hundred years. There was 
no remedy for crimes; they reproduced themselves un- 
der the scars, and the injuries done by society to its 
bound and shackled members could not be atoned for 
before this society itself disappeared from the face of 
the earth. 

“They save children from physical suffering,” he 
continued, “and what, in the best instance, is lacking? 
The spiritual. Or, let us say, they elevate them spirit- 
ually ; with what result? So that later on they can see 
the darkness covering the rest so much better. One 
thousand children, ten thousand children, let us say 
one hundred thousand; well, and what of the other one 
hundred million? Compared with such people, Sisyphus 
was an optimist. It is always the same; they have no 


FABER 279 


comprehension of symptoms. They don’t hear the 
alarm of bells until their eardrums are well-nigh break- 
ing. ‘They are proud of the few desiccated social 
victims that they have saved and they hypocritically 
avoid the mountains of corpses—did you observe any- 
thing? I observed nothing. All Christs! All re- 
deemers! Your blood? But don’t you see, we are 
shedding tears. Your broken existence? But we have 
been weeping for nineteen-hundred and twenty-four 
years. May I ask”—here he suddenly turned sharply 
to Faber— "what reimbursement you have been given 
or offered for your six years of death in Siberia?’ 

Faber shuddered. He remained silent. 

“The building of an asylum for children, perhaps?” 
mocked Arquint; “so that you can refresh yourself 
at the spectacle of how the consumptive, scrofulous, 
idiotic, anemic offspring of the grateful proletariat is 
initiated into the mysteries of culture? Decidedly 
clever speculation, thus to make a man forget that he 
has been robbed of his lifeblood, the heart of it, the 
whole kernel of his existence. Oh, you, who forget, 
you are as guilty as your murderers! For it was 
murder. Don’t you feel that you were murdered?” 

Faber reddened and stood up. “You may be right,” 
he said, ill at ease. 

The door had opened again and the black-haired 
girl, hearing Arquint speak so loudly, entered, ap- 


280 FABER 


proached Baltesser, who had seated himself by the 


table and was reading a letter, leaned her arm on his 
shoulder, and looked at the letter. Baltesser took 
no notice of her presence and her diffident advances; 
the abject submission which she exhibited toward him 
in look and attitude was obviously distasteful to him. 
Faber observed that she was far pregnant. 

Baltesser asked him, as if casually, whether he would 
not write his name under the appeal that was directed 
against the Children’s City and that was to be distrib- 
uted as the first signal for battle. He replied that he 
would have to consider it and merely nodded when 


Baltesser said he would call for his reply. Then he’ 


took his leave. On the stairs he observed an old man 
and an old woman who stepped shyly out of his way. 
They were poorly dressed and appeared to have been 
standing here for some time. Suddenly the woman 


spoke to him haltingly. ‘Did you see her?” she asked. 


Faber, amazed, failed to reply. “She means whether ” 


you met our daughter upstairs,’ explained the man, — 
“She happens to live at Herr Baltesser’s. Pardon, if 


we have intruded.” They were obviously Jews. In 
a gloomy mood Faber passed on. 


As sleep failed him in the night he arose from his 


bed, sat down at the table, took pencil and paper, and 
wrote the following: 


“Faith or Martina—I don’t know to which of you 


Pe Mma 4 a? 


| 
| 
| 
| 





FABER 281 


two I write this. Often you merge in my conscious- 
ness into one person; then again you move far apart 


and I can grasp neither. The one who is dumb and 


the one who speaks—they hold one another by the 
hand. The dumb one asked too much of me—how 
could I have understood her when I needed consola- 
tion, and had myself been condemned to silence for so 
long? The other had the ability to open me; she did 
not spare the pains of opening the rusted locks with 
the rusted keys, as my poor father expressed it. Per- 
haps toward her I was too unreserved in confessions. 
It is not good for human beings to know everything 
about each other, not good to throw light into all the 
dark spaces. I have regretted much; for instance, 
that I told her of certain privations. I said to myself 
afterward: it is impossible that a woman like her can 
listen to that without resistance, in spite of all that she 
has experienced, let alone understand. Her training, 
the social stratum from which she comes, finally the 
refinement embodied in her personality—all this pre- 
vents her from an unprejudiced comprehension. And 
as regards the influence of taste, there is little differ- 
ence between a St. Anthony with his vision and a rut- 
ting animal. In any case she must have the impression 
that I got completely out of control over there. Oh, yes, 
don’t let us fool ourselves; the insanity has set in— 
sickness, mental confusion. So it happened, I don’t 


282 FABER 


deny it. Yearning—a delicate word. But my yearn- 
ing no longer possessed spirit and soul; it burst the 
tortured body; it became tarnished as silver does when 
it lies in damp soil. 

“Do you remember, Martina, how once, many years 
ago, we read Gottfried Keller’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ to- 
gether in the village, and how, when we reached the 
lovely episode at its close, where Sali carries Vreneli 
on the ship and they die together, you said to me 
with a fiery look: That is as it should be; it must be so; 
either‘. .....or.. .. Do you remember? Audıl az 
declare with confidence that we both have held fast to 


that either... or...” We could not follow our 


predilections, neither you nor I; we could not substi- 


tute another, neither you nor I. We had been living in 


actual union. When I parted from you at that time I 


did not yet know what it signified; I was an imma- — 


ture human, had not taken stock of myself, had no 


idea how the majority of mankind helps itself and 


makes a virtue of necessity; did not know that ina 


thousand cases of love and marriage, of happy love © 


and happy marriage, there is hardly one in which the | 


actual union takes place. In the meantime I have | 


thought a great deal about it and heard a great deal. 
What is experience? Taking things into one’s self, andl 


letting them fulfil one’s self. There were hours when — : 


I could call to my mind’s eye the faces of all human 


FABER 283 


beings with whom I had ever come in contact, men 
close to me and merely passing by, line for line with 
a clearness and accuracy that they never had when 
they were present before me; thus I came upon secrets 
of which even they knew nothing. I call that experi- 
ence. In our camp was a remarkable man; good, that 
I think of him, good that I at least write down his 
name, Alexander Wehn—here none remembers any- 
thing about him, not even about his death. Soon 
after my flight typhus felled him. He did not exactly 
love humankind; was a cynic through and through, but 
with what insight and understanding! Wehn was a 
medical man, his leanings made him a psychiatrist. 
Many a night during the endless winters we sat to- 
gether in the barracks and gossiped; practically always 
on one and the same theme. He explained to me how 
it happened that most men and women constantly de- 
fied Nature in their ignorance and carelessness ; in their 
physical relations each goes his own way; each takes 
his pleasure selfishly; thus gradually they became em- 
bittered and withered, the one through the other. 

“Tt is so dreadfully difficult; language does not suf- 
fice. There is no happiness in love, and consequently 
also no happiness in general without deep and constant 
watchfulness of the body and of the soul. That was 
the outcome of our discourses. Sensation shared simul- 
taneously—if that is not present down to the smallest 


284 FABER 


nerve fibre and into the core of the heart, then death 
is already on the way. I need not enumerate the rea- 
sons why men have not learned to guide their wives, 
and why girls age in wedlock without becoming wives 
—they are as plentiful as the lies and the scars that 
surround us—now I see it daily, almost hourly; be- 
cause this is so, an incurable defect in love has grad- 
ally insinuated itself into our part of the cultural 
world. Thus spoke Wehn, and he proved to me from 
many instances that he had observed how, as a result 
of this defect in love, our world is full and full to over- 
flowing of unsatisfied souls—through generations, 
through centuries. Wehn declared that it was like a 
progressive poisoning and that no matter what desig- 
nation physicians chose for it, whether neurasthenia, 
or degeneration, or hysteria, or something else, the 
roots of it were in this defect. These unsatisfied souls 
nag one another, torture one another, hate and distrust 
one another; they consider themselves guilty without 
knowing exactly why, and nurse a suppressed venge- 
ance, without knowing exactly for what purpose. Part 
of them go down because of their own weakness, or 
weariness, or hopelessness, or disappointment, or ossi- 
fication; the other part break all bonds and turn to 
rebellion. k 

“Is it the truth? At that time I doubted the devas- 
tating picture. It was a little too plausible for me— 


FABER 285 


that is why I doubted. One would have had to pos- 
‘sess deeper knowledge than I, to have had wider expe- 
rience in life in order to say: It is true. But since my 
return I begin to feel a fateful acquiescence in it, and 
something sinister seems to be stirring deep within 
‘me. It was an unusual freak of nature, Martina, 
which made it possible for us to find perfect union 
in our young married life without thought of failure 
or deception ; we innocents did not cherish it or esteem 
it properly, perhaps because we were still half children 
‘who could hold fast to each other and catch the 
‚same pitch from each other; I without previous ex- 
‘perience, you by the grace that is within you. Later, 
when I was far from you, it stood out from the rest 
‚of life like a gift from God; I trembled constantly 
‘on account of it as one who has unwittingly possessed 










‚a bar of pure gold and now sees it converted into specie 
for vulgar use. Then I realized that it had become 
coin and was no longer intact, untarnished, glorious, 
as it comes from the bosom of the earth. And when 
you took me to yourself again that night—I have said 
to Faith, it was as if I were thrown froma high tower, 
just so. Our bodies no longer responded. I had be- 
come, all at once, a cripple in my own eyes. Then the 
poison began to work within me. My senses became 
obscured, sight and feeling; something drove me for- 
ward; I did not wish to go, but I must. I go out on 


286 FABER 


the street and hatred rises within me against unknown 


persons that I meet; even their members arouse my 
hatred—their feet as they walk, their fingers as they 
grasp; the laughter of this one and the glance of that 
one, the little and the big, old as well as young, poor 
and rich, I hate them all equally; I walk behind them 
with evil thoughts; I shrink from them; I see them 


naked—the horrible bodies, the fat paunches, the loose 


yellow skin, the ugly traces of their dissipations, the 
ravages of alcohol, the scars of syphilis, with which 
nine-tenths of them are rotten. Suddenly one looks 
unashamed into my face; it is a dandy, a fop, if you 


please; Lord knows on whom he has been calling, he’ 


looks so very self-satisfied. It amuses me to imagine 


that I dare seize him and drag him after me; when 
he is in my power I will have at him until every- 


thing dances before his eyes. What have we here? 


Why have you, my dear fellow, sullied the world by 


being born into it? What makes you chuckle on the 


street in the light of day? Don’t you see, you thief 
and bounder, time-server and wastrel, what you have 


brought about? You know of nothing? You are 


none the less responsible, none the less guilty. And I 


intoxicate myself with the idea that I will destroy 


him, crush him under my feet. 
“Oh, Faith! 


x 


“Is this what my return has made of me, after all 


FABER 287 


the bitterness? This—an underhanded, malicious in- 
cendiary? One who breaks his own hearth into bits 
and perhaps uproots his own son out of his soil, be- 
cause he himself no longer has roots? Rebels are 
people easily in motion, who care nothing for those 
who are sedentary ; they need holes to hide in, quarters 
on the run. There are many such; since I have taken 
on their colouring they detect me from afar, draw 
their rings about me, and it seems that they are certain 
of Eugene Faber.” 

At this point he broke off, remained sitting for a 
while at a loss, then locked the pages carefully in a 
drawer. When he arose from the table he clutched at 
his breast with a suppressed exclamation. The palpita- 
tion of the heart, which had spared him for a number 
of weeks, again set in. 

On the following morning Martina returned from 
her trip, two days earlier than she had expected and 
had written. She had sent no message in advance be- 
cause she did not take herself too seriously on such 
‘occasions, and also because she liked little surprises. 


XXI 


CHRISTOPHER had three days’ recess from school be- 
fore him. A scarlet fever epidemic had broken out 
and the school had been closed. Christopher found 
scarlet fever to be a praiseworthy institution. He did 
not understand the terror created by this well-sounding 
word. 

He was easily impressed by words that had a pretty 
sound. Especially when he could not associate them 
with any particular meaning. He invented such words, 
as, for instance, palufan. Palufan to him meant his 
Sunday suit. The language in general use had no 
expression for it; he had one. 

Moreover, he was not in a good humour. 

Since his mother had returned from her trip, now 
two days ago, he had not seen her altogether for more 
than one hour. Truly she had kissed him and rallied 
him in lively fashion, but he did not like that, for he 
considered it incompatible with his experience and his 
years. Besides there had been something about her 
caresses that made him reflect, as if she wanted to hide 


away from him. He would have preferred to have her 
288 be 


| 


FABER 289 


enter into a serious discussion with him. She did not 
do that. 

_ He understood this. Grown-ups thought they were 
acting most wisely and acted most stupidly. He saw 
everything. He saw through all of them. You had 
‘to be constantly on guard against the secretiveness with 
which they did everything. The only one who acted 
'honourably toward him was Faith. Yet a change had 
come about even in Faith in the last few days. She 
always glanced away whenever he talked with her. 

It was not cheery in the rooms. Nobody bothered 
about him. Nobody paid any attention to him. He 
heard the voice of his mother at the telephone. Then 
she departed. Then, as on yesterday, came a man who 
asked for his father. Then came people who asked 
for his mother. Then two men came and went into 
his father’s room, which the first man had already en- 
tered. Their loud voices penetrated to him. Then 
his mother returned and Faith remained with her a 





long time. 

_ There was something remarkable about all that. It 
could be seen that Christopher was puzzling his head 
about it. He began a conversation with the kitchen- 
maid, Emma, whom he did not like ordinarily. He 
considered her silly. He made her understand that he 
would soon make himself independent. He would de- 
part in order to have an adventure. What adventure? 





290 FABER 


Well, a toad languished in the cellar of the furrier’s 
next door; he would disenchant it. But this was the 
least, merely a beginning. | 
After some reflection he said to himself: “One thing 

I would like to know: is there really a China, or do 
they merely talk about it? I ought to get that out of 
them some time.” 
Suddenly he listened. Herr Schadenbach’s voice re- 
sounded on the lower landing of the stairs. It sounded 
like the bark of an old, irritable dog. Christopher 
frowned, opened the door of the corridor, and listened. 
Herr Schadenbach yelled up. He absolutely could not 
tolerate the fact that people were constantly moving 
about and talking loudly above his rooms. It was true 
that the men in father’s room were talking noisily. But 
the unseemliness and rudeness of Herr Schadenbach’s 
complaint aroused Christopher’s anger to the utmost, 
He had been long enough coming to a decisive act. He 
descended step by step until he stood directly in front 
of the hated man, placed his hands behind him, bent 
his body forward, and on his part yelled as loud as 
he could: “Tolanzel! Tolanzel! Tolanzel!” This 
wholly meaningless combination of sounds seemed to 
him to express such an amount of denunciation and 
contempt that he turned about immediately and, with 
head high, climbed back to his own floor. “He will 
4 

“ 


4 


i 


i 


FABER 291 


take notice of that,” he murmured with satisfaction; 
“he will take care to remember that.” 





_ Herr Schadenbach, completely benumbed in amaze- 
ment, looked after him with popping eyes as long as 
he could and then broke out into piercing laughter. 
“Laugh, Tolanzel,” sneered Christopher, at the same 


time slamming the door; “laugh; what you have just 


received will stay with you.” 
A little later he put into his pocket one of the bars 


| 


‘of chocolate that his mother had brought him and 


| 
| 


went out. He went into the court of the furrier, where 







he commonly found playmates. But he found there 
only a fourteen-year-old boy whom he hardly knew, 
and who was digging a gutter in a puddle of standing 
rain-water. It was dirty work and dirty was the lad 
‘who did it. 

Christopher sat down on a stone with studied dis- 
interestedness and watched him. As the other lad 
was mean enough to act as if he did not notice him, 
he decided to start the conversation and remarked off- 
hand: “I certainly handed something to that Schaden- 
bach to-day.” 

| The other lad glanced across. “Who?” he asked 
slightingly. “You? What Schadenbach ?” 

“The fat fellow who lives in our house,” Christopher 
replied, in a tone that conveyed that he was not one 


292 FABER 


to boast. Then he took his chocolate out of his pocket 
and thoughtfully removed the paper. 

The other bestirred himself slowly, took a few big 
steps, calmly removed the chocolate from Christopher’s 
hand and swallowed it. Then he returned to his occu- 
pation. 

This gave Christopher a great idea of the power of 
the fourteen-year-old. He was so shocked that he 
suppressed every protest and silently sought a new 
sphere of interest. 

He lay down on his abdomen before the door 
of the cellar, in which ostensibly lived the toad that 
was waiting for its human form. While his eyes were 
seeking to penetrate the darkness below it began to 
rain heavily, and as dusk was also falling he started 
home. Faith, dressed for going out, came toward him 
and said that she would probably not return home until 
late and therefore had asked Emma to remain in the 
house until then. She hoped Christopher would be rea- 
sonable and suggested that he take up a book and go 
to bed at nine o’clock. Then she kissed him on the 
forehead and disappeared. | 

When Christopher was alone he shook his head. 
Things appeared strange to him. For Faith to leave 
him in the evening had never happened before. And 
Faith had hardly ever kissed him on the forehead. 
Their relationship did not include confidence of that 


FABER 293 


kind. Moreover, the dark shadows in her face and 
the dejection in her look had not escaped him. He 
reflected. The quiet round about proved oppressive 
and he began to hum a little. The chords of a piano 
came from a residence in the first storey; then again 
everything was quiet. Then he heard Emma clatter- 
ing with the dishes in the kitchen; and again silence. 
The rain had stopped for a time; now it pattered anew 
on the metal cornice in front of the windows, and this 
noise made the silence still more uncanny. 

Christopher sat at the window with head resting 
on his elbow, his cheek pressed into his hand, and 
‘watched the streaks of rain flash by when they hit the 
light coming from the window. This entertained him 
for a time and he decided to build a Noah’s ark. He 
placed four chairs together so that they formed an 





inner square. Into this space he carried his picture 
‘books, his school notebooks, his coat, a pair of shoes 
and a bag for provisions. With lively yelling he drove 
‘before him the various animals that were to be housed 
in the ark—that is to say, he imagined he did so—and 
‘managed to become somewhat angered by the stubborn- 
ness of the camel and the intractability of the fowls. 
He procured an old, torn umbrella from an adjoining 
‘room, opened it, and made use of it as roof for the 
ark. Finally he himself entered it and was now ready 
‘for the flood. After a time this seemed to tire him; 





294 FABER 


he sighed, removed the umbrella from the ark, and 
marched with it about the room, walking up and down 
several times, and as he was well-nigh obliterated under 






















the umbrella he gave the appearance of a wandering 
black mushroom. Suddenly he said in a singing, priest-' 
like voice, filled with bad tidings: “There is the sea. 
A great inundation. No houses left; no human beings’ 
left. No one left on the world except myself and the 
umbrella.” ; 

An ironical snicker caused him to stop. Emma had 
entered with his supper. He frowned, and when she? 
attempted to start a conversation while he was sitting” 
at table and eating porridge he refused to join in. 
This hurt her feelings and she left. 

Again silence, and time flying. He gazed long and 
with extraordinary intentness at the dial of the pendu- 
lum clock, so long, until the big hand had moved from 
half-past eight to nine. To his satisfaction he had 
been able to observe plainly the retarded movement, 
but he had never succeeded in catching the little hand 
at the same time. In his private idiom this clock we 5 
called Ragun, an attempt to reproduce phonetically its 
rather mysterious characteristics. # 

“Can’t you talk with me, Ragun?” he said to the 
clock. i 

The big hand crept on; Ragun did not reply. There= 
upon Christopher pushed his chair to the wall, climbed 


“4 





FABER 295 


up and stopped the movement of the tireless pendulum. 
He became frightened, probably because the silence be- 
came terrifying on account of the sudden cessation of 
the noise of the clock. “It’s all over with you now, 
Ragun,” he said, in a voice that sounded a bit fearful; 


“now you are dead, now there will be no more time.” 
| 
/ 
voice, and he turned so suddenly that he nearly fell 


“What are you doing, Christopher?” asked another 


from his chair. In his eagerness he had not heard his 
father open the door. He had just returned home and 
had seen the light in Christopher’s room through a 


crack in the door. 


| 


A remarkable thing happened. Christopher, this 
strong character, this enemy of any show of emotion, 
threw his arms around his father’s neck, clasped him 
tight, and sobbed his heart out. 

Faber, who from his looks plainly did not feel very 
self-confident himself, was shocked. He did not grasp, 
without further explanation, the connection between 
the lad’s violent outburst of suffering and his playing 
with the clock, at which he had found him. Ostensibly 
he reflected on its deeper origin and his face took on 
the consciousness of blame. He caressed Christopher’s 
hair with a gentle hand and pressed the tearful face 
to him. “Now, my dear boy,” he said, “what is so 
terrible? You must not cry. Why didn’t you go to 
bed? Where is Faith? Were you alone?” The boy 





296 FABER 


nodded. “Entirely alone?” A nod, again. “Well, 
that is too bad, but you must not cry on that account. 


See, we men don’t cry, no matter how miserably we — 
; y; y 


feel. We have to down it; we have to be courageous. 
The world demands it of us. Now then, I know that 
you are a brave little comrade—every one knows that; 
and it seems to me that you and I have to hold to- 


gether much more than we have done heretofore. Nat- 


urally I can’t say that you will need me, but I shall 
need you in any case.” 

These and other words pleased Christopher so much 
that he soon smiled through his tears with an expres- 
sion half of pride, half of curiosity; meanwhile Faber 


removed his shoes, his suit, his stockings, his shirt; 


let him slip into his nightgown; led him to his bed 


and remained seated at his bedside, with the child’s ° 
hand in his, until Christopher was asleep. Then he 
turned out the light and left the room. When he was 
passing the door to the main corridor the key turned — 
in the lock and Faith entered. In spite of the um- — 
brella that she had carried her cloak was wet from the” 


rain and even her gloves were wet. 
“So late?” inquired Faber. 


“Yes... late,” she replied, and put away the um- | 


brella. “Is Christopher asleep?” 


Faber nodded. He was about to tell her what had ‘ 


happened to Christopher, and then refrained. 


He ee 


FABER 297 


“Has anything happened?” Faith inquired with un- 
easiness, having observed the play of his features. 

He said “No” hesitatingly. “At least nothing of 
moment,” he replied. “The loneliness in the empty 
house probably frightened him. I also came only a 
short time ago. I would not have thought him so 
sensitive. Possibly it was not the loneliness entirely. 
Possibly he detected something else.” 

“Loneliness, you say? Emma promised me not to 
leave him alone... .” 

It turned out that the girl had gone home. 

Ten minutes later Faith knocked at the door of the 
living-room. 

“T must ask your pardon,” she said, entering and 
remaining standing at the door. “I must explain my 
going. I went out to the Princess. I wanted to see 
her. Merely see her. Wanted merely to be near her 
for a few hours. It gives one strength to be with her. 
Else I would not have had enough strength for—for 
everything.” 

In this short time she had changed her attire. She 
wore a dark brown house-dress with large cloth but- 
tons and a white ruff at the neck, so that she bore a 
resemblance to the women in Van Eyck’s pictures, an 
impression that was accentuated by the oval of her 
head and her unfashionable, smooth hairdress, which 
left her forehead free and caused it to shine like ivory. 


298 FABER 


“Won’t you sit down?’ asked Faber, looking past 
her face. 

She shook her head and continued: “I chose to- 
night for this purpose because I knew that Martina 
would be with the minister the whole evening in order 
to discuss the new building project with him. Several 
specialists and two Englishmen are also there; the ses- 
sion will probably continue until late in the night. Mar- 
tina carries the declarations and powers of attorney of 
the English and American affiliated societies. That 
gave me the chance, if I was lucky, to be alone with 
the Princess, and I was lucky. She was still tired 


from her trip and had retired, but when she heard — 


that I was there she had me come to her room.” 
She told this in a strangely languid tone, as if to 
herself, hardly looked up once; occasionally a peculiarly 
repressed smile, merely the suggestion of a smile, 
played about her mouth. “I had not seen the Princess 
for many weeks,” she continued; “I had forgotten how 
wonderful it is even if one may only gaze at her face. 


I asked her: May I stay here half an hour? She was ~ 


lying on an army cot and demanded that I sit down 
beside her. I sat there and was silent and she made 
no objection to my silence. After a long time she 


took my head in her hands and said: “You are in need, ; 


child, in great need, it seems to me.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, 
‘actually in great need.’ ‘See it through to the end,’ 


ee ne ee 


FABER 299 


she said; ‘see it as true as you can through to the end; 
you can’t go wrong if you are completely honest, if 
you do not lie to yourself.’ ‘I will do that,’ I said, and 
begged her merely to let me remain with her. She 
had a small harmonium in her room and played the in- 
strument like a master. I know she plays rarely, but 
to-day she sat down and played softly, an old Italian 
cantata. Thereupon I kissed her hand and left.” 

Faber looked down before him and said nothing. 
Faith, too, became silent. But it was as if she ex- 
pected a question from him. The question came, but 
only after a long time. “And Martina?’ he asked, 
dully. 

“Martina, certainly,” she nodded. “My God, what 
days those two were! I felt as if I were severely ill, 
I feel it even now. She is no doubt the most peculiar 
person on earth. No doubt she knew everything, sus- 
pected everything, the moment she crossed the 
threshold. I cannot tell how I come to this conclu- 
sion with such certainty and what it was about her, 
but that is how it was. I know her so well; I know 
every bit of her, every shade of her, and I don’t de- 
ceive myself.” 

“The same thing happened to me,” said Faber, and 
suddenly his eyes flared up at her with a timid, deep 
fire; “but you have been with her, Faith, you have 
spoken with her? . . .” 


300 FABER 


Faith, drawing back her shoulders almost imper-— 
ceptibly as if she wanted to hide herself from his’ 
glance, replied: “Spoken with her, yes; that is to say, 


she asked me what I had done during her absence, how 
I arranged matters; wanted to know everything to the 
smallest detail, even the orders for the kitchen. But 
only such things. I could not come close to her. It 
was as if I stood before an iron gate. When I tried 
to begin, merely to hint at what burdened my soul, 
made just the slightest attempt to speak of what we 
have between us, and what I would rather not know 
nor have ever discovered, she would not wait for my 
second word, began immediately to tell about her trip, 
about the Princess and how she had been honoured, 
about the amusing customs in England and a lord who 
fell in love with her, and so on; all of this with that 
peculiar light in her eyes and that high-pitched laugh- 
ter, which indicates that she is highly agitated and 
does not wish to betray it at any price. She also looked 
strangely about her room, her own room, and looked 
strangely at me, and even if this was but for a second 
it gave me an uncanny feeling. This happened yester- 
day, and again to-day. In the meantime she did not 
mention you once, although formerly she spoke your 
name in every one of our conversations with a pleasant 
word or a sigh, and at the slightest excuse. It was 
quite natural for her to say, “And Eugene.’ Do you 


oe 


FABER 301 


understand what I mean? ‘And Eugene.’ This ‘and’ 
—it would seem no longer to be there, this ‘and.’ ” 

“It may be that it is no longer there,” said Faber 
bitterly. ‘Perhaps Fate has crossed it out.” 

“And you—” 

“No,” Faber interrupted her, for he guessed what 
she was about to say. “No. Notaword. We greeted 
each other. She was very nice to me, very nice. She 
stood before me with her arms so limp, or perhaps it 
merely seemed that way. Speak? Speak in detail? 
No. Where was I to begin? The barricade is grow- 
ing ever higher. The unspoken words lie upon it 
like corpses. I got out of her way. A coward. When 
a man loses his advantage he immediately becomes 
a coward. We are heroes only when we use our fists. 
Do act for me, Faith, else I don’t know how it will 
end.” 

“End?” Faith asked uneasily in rejoinder. “Has 
it not already ended? Or is a beginning still possible?” 

They both became affrighted at the same moment; 
outside, the door opened; light, rapid steps; Martina 
entered. 

She kept her hand on the latch; her tan-brown eyes 
threw a lightning glance at Faber, another at Faith; 
not until then did she come wholly into the room. Only 
the sharpest observation could have detected anything 
unusual in the two looks, for it was not Martina’s in- 


302 FABER 


tent to show any sign of amazement, curiosity, or sur- 
prise, despite the fact that the way in which Faith and 


Eugene confronted one another, and obviously became ” 
silent when Martina entered, must in any event have © 


’ 


appeared odd and suspicious. She did not look up 


while she closed the door, dropped her cloak and re- 


moved her hat, and nothing could be read in her fea- 


tures, which had something thoughtful and collected © 


about them. 


“Oh, this Fleming,” she said, laughing softly, “how ° 


he talks! I must tell you that he escorted me home. ° 


And he was gallant, oh, so gallant! He was at the 


minister’s as interpreter for our Englishmen; he 


speaks English remarkably well. In fact he overdoes 


it. I doubt whether they speak so well in England 


ee Ben een 


itself. He is a man who does excellently everything — 


he attempts. Really. Yes, the Princess begged him 


to be our interpreter and the Englishmen were carried — 


away. ‘A charming fellow!’ they said. That is the ; 


highest praise an Englishman can give, isn’t it?’ And 


she laughed again. 


“Have you dined, Martina?” Faith inquired. “One 


always has to ask you that. Do you wish anything? 


Tea? Tea and biscuit?” 


g 


“No, dearest. I beg of you, nothing, nothing at all,” — 


Martina replied earnestly. “You may well believe that 
I was nearly drowned in tea in England. Oh, how 


' 


FABER 303 


tired, how tired I am!” Comically imitating a dead 
weight she fell into a chair. More things seemed to 
suggest themselves to her the longer she talked, but 
her look seemed to grow more aimless, almost vacant. 
“Lest I forget”’—she turned to Eugene—“‘your friend 
Fleming wants me to say he hopes you will receive 
him to-morrow after dinner. He says he has some- 
thing important to say to you.” 

“So? Something important? What can that be?” 
Faber said, trying to be funny. 

“My God, he told me about it; a call has appeared 
in a newspaper. A call directed against the Children’s 
City. They call it a philanthropic theatre, Fleming 
said in anger. Your name is supposed to be there, 
too. They find it to be a sinful waste of money. Some- 
thing to delude people, they find. Did you hear that, 
Faith? A newspaper publishes such stuff. Is it pos- 
sible, Eugene, that your name is there? Not really?” 

It would be a vain effort to reproduce the air with 
which she said this; how outwardly she was full of 
fun and light-hearted, and inwardly repressing her 
fear, and how her fluent, girlish voice passed now into 
the higher and now into the lower ranges. Faber col- 
oured and made no answer. 

Martina looked at him in astonishment; behind her 
astonishment was sorrow; then she bowed her head. 
“Now I am going to bed,” she cried suddenly, sprang 


304 FABER 


up, and shook back the hair that had fallen over her 
forehead. “Good night, Faith; good night, Eugene.” 








With that she hurried out, almost running. 

Faith and Faber looked at one another. But they 
exchanged no more words. They even parted without 
a word of farewell. | 


XXI 


As late as three o’clock in the afternoon Faber sat 
gloomy and inactive in his room. He had decided not 
to visit the office; he detested every step of the way, so 
that even his stride underwent a change when he 
started out for it. He had intended to carry forward 
a task already begun, a plan for a concert hall drafted 
days ago, but he had hardly reached for his pencil when 
he put it down again distracted and disheartened. 

He perceived voices and distinguished them. His 
mother was speaking with Faith. After a while she 
came to him in his room. She asked whether she 
disturbed him. He silently offered her a chair. She 
thanked him softly, sat down, and sighed. Within a 
few days she had aged visibly. Deep lines had formed 
about the mouth; her hair, formerly touched with 
brown threads, was pure grey, and her eyes showed no 
trace of their former brilliancy. 

The sympathetic, searching glance of the son caused 
her to nod sadly. “Yes, Eugene,” she said, “your 
mother has suddenly become an aged woman. Who 
would have thought of that? Even I, good Lord! A 
year ago no tempest could have bent me. Now this 

305 


306 FABER 


good old faithful servant of mine”’—she ran her hands 
down her sides— “gives me notice of leave-taking.” 

“You have done a great deal in your life, Mother; 
you are entitled to rest too,” replied Faber, gently. 

“Rest—naturally I should like that, although it is 
not the state in which I am most at ease. Since your 
father died, that glorious man, I have always had the 
greatest fear of the moment when I should hear: “Your 
time has come.’ There are people who dare not take 
stock of themselves. When I do so it may be too late. 
You laugh. It is not a matter for laughter.” 


“No, Mother, I did not laugh.” 


“And to go to the others, to stay with them, that is 


no longer possible. I could never get used to the idea” 


that one day I would experience an age that was not 


my age. What was the good of that? It has come 


u 


about, nevertheless. This age, your age—no, it is no 


longer mine. Do you know the, legend of the men 


of stone? The prince goes toward the mountain; 


round about him all are of stone. Behind him is con- 


tinuous hooting, screaming, and yelling. But he dare 


not turn around. If he turns around he will himself : 


turn to stone. That’s the point. Any one who still 


has a heart in his body and who turns toward the ; 


howling will himself become stone.” 


“Have you good reports of Valentine? Is he con- 


ducting himself properly out there in the institution?” 


FABER 307 


asked Faber, in order to lead his mother away from 
her gloomy comment. 

“It seems there is hope,” she replied with uncer- 
tainty. 

It turned out that she was oppressed not solely by 
worry over her grandson but that she also feared for 
Clara. Besides—and this was the ostensible reason 
for her visit—she had had a discussion with Hergesell, 
whose consternation knew no bounds when he learned 
that Faber had joined the party of the extreme reds. 
Many of his acquaintances, who had read this in the 
party organ, had already informed him of this out of 
spite or astonishment. He had declared that he must 
break loose from such a relative, so that he would not 
be compelled to meet him in his own home. “He in- 


3 


tends to call on you even to-day, Eugene,” concluded 
Anna Faber ; “he wants to give you the choice of either 
retracting publicly or giving up any intercourse and 
association with him, his children, and his wife in any 
form.” 

“Oh!” mocked Eugene. “He would have a little 
Diet of Worms all his own? Just let him come.” 

“You must not forget that Hermann, in spite of all 
his faults, is a man who stands high in culture,” said 
Anna Faber; “with him it is a matter of actual ideals, 


of the cause. In any case you must respect his stand- 
point.” 


308 FABER 


Eugene shrugged his shoulders. “You were going 
to speak of Clara, Mother,” he evaded. 

The situation in Clara’s case was that day by day 
she withdrew more and more from her family, even 
no longer took any interest in her children. The visits 
of Father Desiderio had become increasingly frequent, 
especially after the affair with Valentine, and it could 
not be overlooked that the strong-willed and very cul- 
tured priest exerted an influence on her that was no- 
ticeable in all her acts. She attended church daily now 
and went to confession on Sunday. She began to at- 
tach weight and significance to memories of her early 
religious training, received before her mother wilfully 
and designedly tore her from her faith and the ex- 
ercise of her faith. She mortified herself, she slept little, 
she gave signs of delighting in introspection, together 
with complete indifference to the world round about. 
Father Desiderio had convinced her that her marriage, 
which had been solemnized in Protestantism, was a vile 
concubinage, a sin for which there was no absolution; 
since then she had withdrawn herself from her husband — 
to such an extent that she began to tremble when she — 
merely heard his step. It seemed as if he did not 
want to know this or to see this; as if he wanted to 
give the world the appearance that all was peaceful so — 
long as possible, perhaps for the sake of his children; 
but things could not last much longer, a breach was 


FABER 309 


unavoidable, and the outcome must be painful for all 
who had a share in it. 

Anna Faber did not abandon herself to rosy-coloured 
illusions. She had recognized too thoroughly the 
transformation of her daughter; she had learned too 
much from Clara’s disposition and passionate con- 
fessions; she had experienced so much pain in the 
embroilment, dissipation, and ruin of her children that 
she finally had to admit herself beaten and helpless. 

Eugene listened, but no matter how sorrowfully his 
mother gazed at him he could find no word of consola- 
tion or regret. 

Anna Faber shook her head dejectedly. Suddenly 
she grew pale and said: “I believe Hermann is com- 
ing.” 

It was not Hermann Hergesell, but Fleming. He 
entered with Christopher, whom he led by the hand in 
amiable fashion, and who in a short time had asked 
him a number of the most difficult questions. “Do you 
know, little fellow,” he said, “I must read up on that 
first. Those are matters that cannot be answered by 
bluffing. The sun is a star. No doubt one may call it a 
star. Inspite of that itis the sun. There are many suns 
among the stars, but what ones they are and what they 
are called I shall first have to study in my books.” 

“Why are you wearing formal black, Fleming?” 
asked Faber, when the boy had left. 


310 FABER 


“T attended her funeral,’ he replied; “she was once 
my pupil—Olga Veit. I taught her Greek a few years 
ago, when her parents were still well off. A gentle 
creature.” | 

“Olga Veit? Funeral? What are you saying?” 
asked Faber, astonished. 

“Didn’t you know ?” Fleming wondered; “TI thought 
you knew. She was the beloved of this Baltesser. 
Day before yesterday she took veronal. He simply 
crushed her underfoot, this—Baltesser. The second 
in a few weeks. One threw herself from the fourth 
storey. There are such woman murderers. They make 
a business of it. They are good for nothing else. They 
are the only murderers that I would send to the guillo- 
tine if I had anything to say about it.” 

Doubtless Faber’s mind’s eye called up the picture 
of the pregnant young girl and how she leaned on the 
shoulder of her lover in slavish subjection, how the 
latter tolerated her humiliating caress with a contemp- 
tuous indifference that was worse than punishment. 
But he said no more, merely dropped his eyes before 
Fleming. 

Fleming’s expression betrayed that he was filled to 
overflowing with words, warnings, and representa- 
tions; that he had been driven hither by his anxiety 
for his friend and the disillusion the latter had suf- 
fered; that perhaps even on the stairs outside he had ' 


FABER Zh 


known exactly what he wanted to say and what would 
make an impression on Eugene. Perhaps Anna Faber’s 
presence hindered and embarrassed him; perhaps Eu- 
gene’s unbending and repellent attitude intimidated 
him, for he seated himself modestly, even fearfully, 
on a chair in a corner and occupied himself in polish- 
ing the lenses of his glasses in silence. After Anna 
Faber had departed he hemmed and hawed timidly 
from time to time, but Eugene gave no heed to it. 
When he raised his eyes and observed Fleming like 
a black shadow against the wall his look seemed to 
ask: “Do you want something of me?” It seemed as 
if Fleming himself had turned into a dumb accusation. 

“T bring to your attention that Hermann Hergesell 
said Faber, finally. “That is 
not meant to indicate that I want you away. On the 


bd 


will soon appear here,’ 


contrary, it will be even agreeable for me if you stay. 
You do not embarrass me; if you embarrass him, let 
him complain; then we’ll see. I certainly place no 
value on a talk without witnesses. Beyond that you 
seem to await explanations from me; perhaps this op- 
portunity will give you what you seek. I don’t know— 
perhaps. I don’t know but that I shall tell this man: 
_ Yonder, dear fellow, is the door.’ ” 

“Don’t do that, Eugene,” said Fleming. “That is 
condescending. You owe him arguments, not brutali- 
ties.” 


312 FABER 


“Bah, arguments!” responded Faber, as if disgusted. 

Some one knocked, and without waiting for a word 
Hergesell entered. His lean, youthful figure, moving 
almost noiselessly, seemed like that of a hurrying mes- 
senger who comes to deliver a message and disappear 
at once. Despite this he stood immovable and full of 
assurance in the middle of the room, looking with 
his short-sighted eyes now at Faber, now at Fleming. 
He wore an elegant ulster that was buttoned tight and 
made his appearance even more slender and unimpos- 
ing. He had brownish yellow spats on his feet and a 
blue-striped silk muffler around his neck. He held his 
hat with a stiff attitude. There was something un- 
compromisingly rigid about him, which led Faber to 
suppress a smile. | 

“I have asked Friend Fleming to be present at our 


’ said Faber, in an ironic tone. “To call 


conversation,’ 
it an interview would probably be an exaggeration. 
You have a communication for me. I am all ears.” 
Hergesell seemed to reflect. He belonged to those 
men who regulate their conduct by an unwritten code 
that is respected solely among those they consider their 
equals. He said, without real firmness, and therefore 
obviously confused: “Yes, that is true. I come to ask 
an accounting from you, Eugene, because you happen 
to be the brother of my wife. I find this is necessary in 


order to get a clear idea of our family relations, or 


FABER 313 


rather our relations socially. You will understand me.” 

“Certainly I understand,” replied Faber, without 
dropping his ironical tone. “There is nothing very 
difficult about that. According to your view I have 
compromised myself politically and therefore it is bur- 
densome for you to continue to have relations with 
me. I understand that completely. -You need not 
have exerted yourself personally. Too bad that you 
have exerted yourself. A written note would have 
sufficed. Why so much politeness?” 

Two round red spots appeared on Hergesell’s col- 
ourless cheeks. “You call that ‘compromised politi- 
cally’? he asked with a deprecatory attitude. “I call 
it something else. I call it prostitution, soiling one’s 
self, giving public notice that you no longer wish to 
be included among civilized men. I call it an attack 
on the people and a crime against us and our children. 
And I have come only because I felt it my duty to have 
it verified out of your own mouth. At least you can- 
not make a mockery of the fact that I have not been 
inconsiderate of you.” 

With hands in his pockets Faber walked back and 
forth in silence for a while. Then he began: “I will 
tell you something for once, Brother Hergesell. You 
are a man of convictions. I respect your convictions; 
they are weapons of steel in the battle of life. Tama 
man of perceptions, and everything that I perceive, 


314 FABER 


and that perceives me, disarms me. We do not stand 
on the same ground; we cannot hope to understand each 
other; each of us expresses a different world. These 
words are wasted, yours as well as mine. Why, then, 
do you want to force me to give you a statement, 
which in the end would not actually signify what you 
read into it? I want no enmity; I want no friendship; 
so let us leave matters as they are.” 

“T cannot do that,” responded Hergesell, and threw 
back his head. “With me it is a question of cleanli- 
ness, a question of renovation.” 

Faber teetered back and forth. “H’m!” he said. 
“Peculiar. What noble characters there are! It is not 
surprising that the sparks fly when they collide. But I 
refuse to clash with you, Hermann Hergesell. My 
view is peaceful. I travel another road. For, you see, 
the whole matter has not the least to do with politics. 
Take note of that, Fleming. I say it for you, not for 
him. He probably thinks that I trim my- sails to the 
wind because he is Clara’s husband. But Clara is lost: 
to me just as much as all others and everything else. 
{ can no longer trim my sails, for the wind has car- 
ried them away. The persons who give him’’—here 
he pointed with his thumb to Hergesell in a dark and 
angry manner— “occasion to speak about renovation 
and cleanliness picked me up on the street like so much’ 
dung. You have a suspicious nature, my brother-in- 


FABER 315 


law, husband of my sister. I was not spoil of which 
they could be proud; they could drag me after them 
by their little finger, they could do with me what they 
wanted. What were their projects to me? their plans 
for revenge against your society? or their party in- 
trigues? Not important enough to me to be worth a 
moment. When a child I played with tinder, when I 
was alone in my room. In sucha case my little Chris- 
topher makes the clock stop. One is like this, another 
like that. Take for granted, that I played with tinder. 
Until now it has caught fire only at the Hergesells’. 
That can be extinguished.” 

“Eugene, Eugene,” murmured Fleming painfully. 

“T don’t know how I am to regard such talk,” said 
Hergesell with an expression that would have been in- 
sulting if Faber had been in a mood to see it. “One 
is either responsible for one’s actions, or not. There 
is no alternative to take into consideration. What do 
you think you will do?” 

“Nothing,” responded Faber, calmly. “What shall 

I do? Have you at the end a protocol in your pocket 
that you want me to sign? Perhaps I will sign it. Is 
not the whole matter damned inconsequential?” 

“I can see toward what you are driving,” said 
Hergesell icily; “you have a system. Much like that 
of a man who expects to be adjudged irresponsible by 
we ecurt,” 





316 FABER 


Faber overlooked even this insult. “If things were 
really serious,” he said, dully and dryly, “that is to say, 
if some one whom I feared ordered me to choose: 
‘Right or left, Eugene Faber ; Hergesell or Baltesser’— 
then I would not hesitate long. You have beguiled 
your voters with the twaddle that you mean to raise 
high ideals and national shrines; you are serving them 
a cud that has already been well chewed up. And be- 
cause they swallow it dutifully you are justified. But 
don’t fool yourselves into thinking that all those who 
cry hurrah and who believe your hocus-pocus are the 
people, or even the nation. You are a phalanx of pro- 
fessors, court counsellors, and generals, and those who 
enact this false enthusiasm before you are the tragic 
masses of those whom you have taught for a hundred 
years that professors, court counsellors, and generals 
are the flower of the fatherland. People—my God! 
People—that is something else. When I mingle with 
the people I can feel as if in my own body how this 
body twitches and turns and sees no end of suffering 
and trembles solely for its wretched bits of bread. The 
German people; where are you? Whither have you 
crept and hidden from the tormentors of your own 
stock, those prophets of lies and learned fanatics who 
tempt you with a piece of sugar in front while they | 
see to it that you continue resolutely and silently to drag. 
your heavy load behind? Working for the people and 





FABER 317 


with the people; yes, that would be a dream, a beautiful 
German dream; but where is the people? Where is its 
face? How can it see me and hear me? It permits 
itself to be used as the lords in the pulpit up there de- 
termine; it knows from school days that anything they 
do is done well. That is in the blood and no revolution 
will change it. I have experienced that every day since 
I returned home and it is certainly bitter that I have 
to see it. Is it then not more practical and fair 
to join the Baltessers, granted that you consider it 
worth while joining anything? They, at least, want 
to clean out the whole plunder. They are not deterred 
by blood and distress, but also they have no hypocrisy 
about them; there stands the beast in its horrifying 
nakedness. It is as if one has worked for twenty-four 
hours at the pumps of a ship; if finally it actually sinks 
one gets a feeling of relief, and that is the end.” 

His voice had grown softer at his last words, for 
Martina had entered the room. She had listened to 
him with her pale face suffused with an expression 
almost of belief, of belief against her will, of belief in 
him and not in what he said. She now approached 
him and gave him a letter. He looked at it in astonish- 
ment, tore it open and read: “Sister Benigna most 
cordially begs Eugene Faber to visit her.” It was writ- 
ten in a large, clear hand. He knew that Sister Benigna 
was the Princess. 


318 FABER 


He seemed undecided, although there could be no 
indecision for him here. 
“You must come with me now, Eugene, immedi- 


3) 


ately,” said Martina with such an earnest emphasis 
on her words that he could no longer delay. She 
even brought in his cloak; he put it on and they de- 
parted. Fleming and Hergesell followed them to the 


door. Here each went in a different direction. 


XXII 


Tuey had to ride a long distance. Twilight was al- 
ready falling when they walked through the double 
gates of the Children’s City which opened on the high- 
road; the twilight of an early fall day with a pale 
green sky and strata of clouds in gleaming red. The 
straight line of the main street extended almost with- 
out end to the circle of hills that bounded the land- 
scape; side streets led off at regular intervals, and 
cross streets branched off from these. It was im- 
possible to estimate the number of wooden houses on 
this enormous expanse of land. And new houses were 
being built where the lines of streets stopped. 

All these streets, byways, and lanes were inhabited 
by children. There were also large open spaces at 
hand; on these spaces children played. Farther on 
were avenues and gardens, and these also were crowded 
with groups of children. They came out of the many 
low-built houses; others went in; there was a continu- 
ous circulation. The windows, draped with bright- 
coloured calico, were nearly all open; Faber could look 
into the rooms and halls; he saw children everywhere. 


Well fed, well dressed children; boys and girls; wee 


319 


320 FABER 


ones who still ventured forward with cautious little 
steps; half-grown children who seemed like giants in 
contrast. Those in charge, nurses and orderlies of 
both sexes, disappeared amid this human swarm and 
one saw only thousands upon thousands of tiny folk, 
Everywhere the air was filled with singing; loud, joy- 
ous cries ascended on all sides; enticing calls and the 
happy laughter of groups dancing roundelays and play- 
ing ball were heard on all sides. In one room Faber 
saw about twenty girls five to six years old. They 
sat on stools in a half-circle and their upraised faces 
showed such absorbed attention and suspense that he 
stood still unwittingly and could not suppress a smile, 
A young man was sitting in the middle and telling 
them a story. In another room dishes were being 
placed on many covered tables and in still another 
stood countless white beds, awaiting their owners pa- 
tiently and silently. At that moment bells rang every- 
where, the signal for supper. And they streamed 
forth; thousands of clear voices, birdlike little voices 
mingled in a deafening explosion of gladness and joy; 
thousands of eyes glanced from flushed, excited faces 
at Eugene and Martina, pushing their way with much 
difficulty through the struggling crowds. Then came 
loud, chirping laughter, whirling arms, breathless 
rivalry. Here and there were timid and diffident chil- 
dren, pale and aloof ones; these were new to the city, 


en 


FABER 321 


at least new in these groups, for Martina explained 
that those just received were kept from two to three 
months in a separate part of the colony and carefully 
prepared for the communal life. 

Suddenly it became quiet in the streets, quiet in the 
houses. But this quiet had a peculiar quality. It still 
seemed to pulsate with the joy that had been poured out 
in a flood, an ocean of joy; it still seemed to hold the 
beats of those tempestuous little hearts; in it vibrated 
all that delicate, unexhausted life that had welled up 
to tremendous size by the coming together of so many 
units. A magic spell of happiness and contentment 
hovered everywhere, over everything; this may have 
been due partly to the gold and green glow in the eve- 
ning atmosphere, or to the knowledge of what great 
things had been accomplished here—a whole world 
saved. Over everything, crowning everything, one 
could trace the presence of the spirit that had created 
this and that controlled it. 

After Eugene and Martina had been walking for 
about a quarter of an hour they came to a place laid 
out on a circular plan. Martina opened the door of 
one of the houses and asked a young woman who came 
toward her for the Princess, in a tone that indicated 
she was accustomed to being there. The girl replied 
that the Princess was in the receiving house; Martina 
no doubt knew that children were received until seven 


322 FABER 


o'clock to-day. ‘Oh, yes!” said Martina, then reflected, 
and seemed at a loss. Then she turned to Eugene 
and suggested that he accompany her to the receiving 
house. He nodded, since he associated no definite idea 
with the word. ‘They turned the corner and after taking 
a few steps reached a house that was distinguished 
from the others by its lack of decoration; before it 
stood men and women of the common people and many 
children, looking, however, very different from those 
Faber had seen hitherto; at the entrance officials and 
servants were bustling busily about. 

They came into a long, brightly tinted hall-like room, 
lighted by ceiling lamps and filled with the sour odour 
of many human beings despite its open windows. Fifty 
to sixty adults crowded around and about as many 
children of all ages. About a fifth of the room was 
barred off by a grille; in the open space beyond stood 
a table and at this sat four persons, two men and two 
women. One of the former, an aged man with a vener- 
able white beard and gold spectacles, asked questions of 
those who were permitted to pass the little door; the 
other, a younger man, took down the answers; one of 
the women compared these answers with certain mem- — 
oranda in a book of record; the other sat at some dis- — 
tance from the table and said nothing, nor was she — 
occupied in any way. 

Faber recognized this woman as the Princess. 


FABER 323 
She seemed older than he had imagined. Her face 


was even narrower than in her portrait. Her manner 
was so rigid that one might have believed her asleep 
had it not been for her large, wide-open grey eyes, 
which followed and regarded the people and their ac- 
tions with a strange, uninterrupted look, almost with- 
out the flicker of an eyelid. Her hands lay quietly 
folded on her lap. A large golden cross hung from 
her breast. Her face was framed by a hood of the 
same dark blue material of which her wide, nunlike 
garb was made. The head covering had a narrow 
edge of lace just as it appeared in the picture that 
Faber had seen once, then had never seen again. 

There was a passage at the left side of the hall, 
close to the wall; Martina forced a way for herself 
and Eugene through the crowd to that spot; a few 
chairs stood along the wall; she sat down and Faber 
seated himself beside her. 

_A long time passed before he removed his eyes from 
the Princess. Whatever he thought meanwhile was 
not betrayed by the expression of his features. Then 
minute by minute his attention was drawn increasingly 
toward the statements and happenings and reports of 
happenings that went on close at hand. 

It was a shocking sort of new drama, with scenes 
that had no coherence, no consistency ; without acting, 
without plot, and in mimicry and gesture of a paralyz- 


324 FABER 


ing uniformity. Yet the mere succession of cases, of 
incidents, and events gave a total effect that was un- 
speakably horrible, especially when viewed as a whole, 
and the effect was much the same as the meaningless 
babble of insane persons. It was as if all the dregs 
that society brought out of its depths, depths avoided 
by all except those damned to languish there, had 
bubbled up dirty and slimy out of a narrow, evil-smell- 
ing shaft; here were neglect, depravity, corruption, and 
disease. The room was saturated with it as a sponge 
with a vile fluid; for a year and a day its walls had 
absorbed those poisoned words and now the latter 
hung down from them like stalactites in a cave. Words 
spoken by men do not pass away; again and again they 
heap spirit upon spirit, terror upon terror, fate upon 
fate, and guilt upon guilt. 

The fact that sufferings of children were dealt with 
exclusively lent an air of cold and perplexed sadness 
to the scene. The further fact that there was no com- 
plaining, lamenting, weeping, or sobbing, but simply 
statement and transcription of the facts, increased the 
horror latent in every remark. What was disclosed so 
tremblingly pointed to much that was horrible beneath 
the surface, just as a slender weed is likely to have 
long, deceptive roots with which it bores into the 
ground. These words, motions, looks, and silences 
built up a stenographic record which suggested a state 


FABER 325 


of horror that no inquisitor or clairvoyant was capable 
of solving. 

The faces betrayed either a morbid calm, or a sullen 
spitefulness. These children knew only the dark side 
of life. They did not believe in a change. The con- 
ditions under which they carried on their existence 
were unalterable laws for them. They were not only 
cut off from all light and hope, but also from every 
form of friendliness. A child of five came forward, 
covered with pus and scabs, her hair alive with vermin. 
Her mother was a prostitute; she had no father; her 
foster-father had disappeared. She had never had a 
home, had never seen a bed; at night she slept in 
cellars, under bridges, on scaffolding; in the winter in 
warming rooms or on the straw of a freight ware- 
house. She begged for her food and received the 
necessaries principally from those whose sole abun- 
dance lay in occasional sympathy with their own kind. 

A twelve-year-old lad, clothed in rags like a grimy 
harlequin, with his back and shoulders, which he calmly 
bared, covered with blue welts. The parents both 
chronic drunkards and he headed well along in the 
same direction; picked up in a tenement house which 
had to be vacated because there was danger of its fall- 
ing down. 

A fourteen-year-old girl; a skeleton; her skin ulcer- 
ated from former infection; in the attic from which 


326 FABER 


she was liberated she lived with eight men, eight fiends, 
whose defenceless victim she had become. The de- 
struction wrought upon her body was exceeded only 
by that of her soul, in which nothing remained but 
darkness and fear. 

A Jewish lad who had fled from his native town, 
where all of his blood and faith had been murdered, 
had wandered here from the east after twenty-six days 
of the greatest deprivation; he was picked up uncon- 
scious in the gutter, his feet two wounds. 

A mother urged her three children forward; the 
father had threatened to kill all three; she could name 
witnesses who could verify the fact that this was what 
she had to expect from him. 

Two children now came forward, brother and sister, 
at most seven and eight years old, who were reported 
to have been found nearly dead from hunger in an 
engine-shaft. Faber had sat by motionless until’ now, 
but when these two, frightened by the questions asked 
of them, began to tremble and clung convulsively to ~ 
each other, he quickly rose and looked around like a 
man who wants to flee. He seemed to have forgotten 
Martina; he seemed to have forgotten everything ex- 
cept this picture of the uttermost human suffering; 
this he could not stand. Martina placed her hand 
softly upon his arm; he pushed her hand away and 
there was something in his look that seemed to say to 


FABER 327 


her: ‘If you can become accustomed to this as your 
daily fare then I will abominate even you, even you.’ 
A severe pallor spread over Martina’s face. 

But something held Faber and directed his attention 
back to this court of destiny—a voice. The voice of 
the Princess. She had risen, walked over to the two 
orphans and was speaking to them. He had never 
heard such a voice; it was the full, clear tone of the 
cello, not deep, not high, not loud, not soft, and yet 
of such a character that silence fell round about. The 
two children who were trembling from fear disengaged 
themselves from their embrace, looked up and listened 
intently, and without resistance let themselves be led 
from her to a young man who was waiting and who 
took them away. 

Then the Princess left her place and came over to 
Martina, whom she had probably noticed long before. 
She gave her hand first to her, then to Faber. Her 
hand was strikingly cold, strikingly narrow. “I have 
become very tired to-day, Martina,” she said. “Let 
us go to my room.” She nodded to the two men and 
the woman at the table, who arose and bowed; an 
old servant hurried ahead to open a little door through 
which they at once reached an open passage. 

“My limbs are still tired from the trip,” said the 
Princess. “Do you think it possible, child, that I am 
no longer strong enough for such efforts? That had 


328 FABER 


not yet occurred to me. Weakness, weakness that 
comes as a surprise—no. We won’t give in to that; 
not yet; this would be too soon.” 

“You should have taken the sleeper, Princess, and 
not travelled third class,’ Martina responded accus- 
ingly. 

The room of the Princess was a space about seven 
paces square; therein stood a wardrobe, a commode, 
a large table, an army cot, and, in a corner, the har- 
monium that Faith had mentioned; above the long 
side of the bed hung some shelves with a number of 
books; on the table burned an electric lamp with a 
green shade of the sort used in offices and courthouses. 
The only decoration, if this could be called a decora- 
tion, was a costly wolfskin that had been spread over 
an armchair. 

Faber found himself alone with the Princess. Mar- 
tina had not entered with them. She had gone to an- 
other room of the house to her work. Soon there- 
after she also left that place. 

The Princess sat down in the armchair; at her silent 
request Faber sat down opposite her. For a full min- 
ute she gazed at him with her ‘calm, earnest look and 
then said, not without confusion, which made her fea- 
tures appear even more winning: “I am glad to see you 
at last, Eugene Faber. I think I should have known 
you even if no one had given me your name. There is 


FABER 329 


much of Martina in your face, and in Martina’s face 
there is much of you. Did you not know that? It is 
true. There is a blood relationship; there is also a 
relationship.of choice—the strongest bond that exists 
on earth. Have you managed to get things arranged 
a little, to make them livable? No doubt it is difficult, 
no doubt of that. Naturally; I can think of nothing 
more difficult. Many persons torment themselves use- 
lessly. We have lost a world and are expected to 
fashion a new one out of ourselves. Martina has told 
me that you have taken a position with the govern- 
ment. Does it satisfy you to some extent?” 

Faber said no. The change that came over his face 
might have been compared to that of a mirror from 
which a mist is disappearing. At first repulse, re- 
fusal; mental reservation, even obduracy; the mistrust 
he had nourished, the stupid accusation to which he 
had held. But before the voice all that faded away, 
before the soulful eyes it slunk away in shame. Was 
this the “magic”? What could be the “magic”? The 
simple nature, the simple, comprehensible truth? The 
courage and the power to see nothing strange, nothing 
inimical, nothing hateful, nothing unclean? His look 
still seemed to search for something while he spoke, 
and there was something involuntary and hesitating in 
his words, as if he were trying to suppress and hide 
a certain urge to give more of himself, which made 


330 FABER 


his words more hurried and warm than he obviously 


wanted them to be. 


The Princess, who may have seen through this battle, — 


smiled. Faber was again astonished. It happened to 


be the smile that Faith had described and that caused | 


the pale face to become suffused with rose and reveal 


gleaming teeth like those of seventeen-year-old girls. 


This obliterated years, experience, and wisdom from 
this woman’s face and left a child. Faber was not 
merely astonished, he reddened also and seemed to 
have difficulty reaching the end of what he was saying. 

He said that there was no joy either in what he 


did or in the reward. The man counted for nothing, — 


the cause counted for nothing. Every one was ani- 


mated with the desire to do superficial work, and no ~ 


sooner had a man found the shelter for which he had 


sighed than he began to use it to gain a dishonest — 


advantage. He could not do this to promote himself; 


he wished to be promoted; he wanted to have a share, © 


to work fruitfully for the whole. What he saw was © 


an uncertain, broken machine, human beings who sold ° 
4 


themselves and betrayed others, and that at the lowest — 


price possible. 


The Princess nodded. “Formerly an organization — 
accustomed to act firmly demanded accomplishment of — 
its members,” she said gently. “Duty had become 2° 


; 


: 
4 


{ 


stern and relentless thing, but it existed. Now free- 


wt 
it 
i 


| 


FABER 331 


dom in its arrogance breaks up the connection and 
human beings gradually receive nothing more exter- 
nally save what they can seize for themselves by force 
and deceit. But what is the good of criticizing and 
complaining? Resistance, of what use is that? New 
races will come and they will have to bring a new 
heart with them.” 

Faber was silent for a moment. “TI signed that 
call,” he said softly; “the matter got into the newspaper 
and you probably called me for that reason, Princess. 
It was an act of desperation and stupidity in addition. 
It is not my view. It was not even my intention, I 
am really far removed from that sort of thing. I am 
not defending myself; I have seen to-day what you have 
here. Perhaps too late. I can’t put it into words, 
not in this case.... You comprehend. I am ina 
certain position. ... I am—what shall I say—not 
miyseliy 2.02? 

. “I did not call you for that reason, Eugene Faber,” 
responded the Princess. “I know that what you say 
is true. I did not imagine it otherwise. It was merely 
the occasion that offered itself to me. I have been 
waiting. I thought that one day you would come. I 
thought you would come to take Martina back from 
me to yourself. But when, after your return home, 
week after week passed, then I knew that you would 
never come if I did not call; then I knew also that I 


332 FABER 


had been indulging in a false hope with regard to you 
and Martina; I must admit that. I suffered a great 
deal because of it. And when Faith came to me a few 
days ago and sat there on my bed at the same hour as 
this, I first saw how serious matters were. I found 
no other comfort for her in my confusion, in my 
sorrow, than such as one might also give to a stone 
that falls into the abyss. Live it through to the end! 
We all live it through to the end; we have to, this 
way or that. Whether it is true or not—the unfathom- 
able God does not bother with that. Even the wrong 
path is to Him a path. But it is no comfort to tell 
that to any one.” | 

Of all this Faber heard and remembered but one 
statement. “Indeed, Princess,” he asked, “is it pos- 
sible, as you say, that I was to receive Martina back 
from you? How? I beg, and I beg earnestly, that 
you explain this to me.” 

The Princess did not reply at once. Her small 
head sank a little to her breast; her look showed that 
she was lost in thought. “Yes, I must do that,” she 
said, as if to herself; “I must do that. But where 
shall I begin? And with what? You see, Eugene 
Faber, in a certain sense I am guilty toward you. For 
I have actually taken Martina. When we met some- 
thing cried in my heart: “That is she.” You ask: Who? 
And why just her? I hope I can make this clear. In 


FABER 333 


the course of my life I have associated much with 
women and girls. They practically fled to me in the 
last few years when so many destinies were torn to 
tatters. Practically all were without a guide. Think 
how the men have conducted themselves in this world; 
how they have destroyed all the possessions of God and 
of the heart. We received not a sign from their hands, 
neither idea nor example; the women stood alone, all 
of them, without faith, without a look upward. So 
they come and want to help. Helpless themselves, they 
want to help. They have experienced marriage with- 
out love; want to love; they have had love, as they un- 
derstand it, and, failing to comprehend why they have 
remained so unfulfilled, seek now something that will 
take away this emptiness. But the situation in which 
I work here cannot take the place of bankrupt feelings. 
Yet it must provide a substitute. And so everything 
becomes dark and confused. It becomes unclean. 
These beings—so untiring, so ready to make a sacrifice, 
so loyal to the task, and unclean! Do you comprehend 
how I suffer? It would sound frivolous if I put it 
into words. I should commit a sin against hundreds 
passionately willing to help. I dare not, must not. Yet 
there are moments when truth is more important than 
forbearance based on gratitude. Judge the task: what 
it is, what it signifies—a world of children who have 
been made miserable. You gave it a glance to-day, 


334 FABER 


but that was nothing; behind it lie atrocities piled as 
high as heaven; we have not discovered and uprooted 
one cruelty when another appears to force mankind 
to its knees. Consider these sad souls of whom I 
speak, these assistants, who fail to understand them- 
selves and confound the general suffering with their 
personal pain—how they mourn and weep vicariously 
in this situation, Oh! Everything is well so long as 
they serve docilely and go their way according to the 
rules. Who shall ask an accounting of the motives of 
those who save lives, when a whole generation is bleed- 
ing and dying? If I am not to break down after my 
efforts of thirty-five years I need the strength of a 
soul, a fresh, original strength, not vacillating weak- 
ness. No one knows how rare this is, how rare the 
innocence and modesty which together build such 
strength.” ‘ 

The Princess covered her eyes for a moment with a 
hand so pale and white as to be transparent, before she 
continued: “We would not be facing each other now 
if I could not say to you, this was the case with Mar- 
tina; she needed no pretext. Here was no renuncia- 
tion, no denial of self. No wounded spirit. But a 
practical goal. I abetted her in that. I deceived her 
about what was before her. I had confidence that I 
could carry her over the difficult part. I saw from the 
beginning what the issue was, but I closed my eyes to 


FABER 335 


it. In order to strengthen her and to determine how 
well fitted she was for her tasks, I purposely gave her 
the most dangerous posts, the most terrible pioneer 
service. You must not forget that this transformed 
life is very recent in all our children’s cities. It has 
flowered only within the year. Before that all was 
Gehenna. What I feared, happened: Martina was 
stirred and affected much more deeply than all those 
who regard their activity here as a mission. All be- 
come accustomed to it in time. Martina never became 
accustomed to it, but nevertheless she remained cool, 
collected, and cheerful. That is her incomprehensible 
peculiarity—she remains cheerful. I learned to love 
her, and always more. Why should I conceal it? As 
a daughter? I don’t know. I have never had a child 
of my own. As a friend, a young friend? No, no, 
That is beyond my capacity. I don’t know. Perhaps 
one loves the guardian angel in this manner. Perhaps 
the idea of one’s self, which is never realized. What- 
ever it was, I could no longer think of going on in my 
work without her. When I think of myself without 
her everything grows dark within me. Even to-day. 
To-day more than ever. And yet from the first day 
I knew that she was entering a school of life and that 
she was preparing herself consciously, not in order to 
dedicate her life to me and my cause, but to give it 
replenished to another person as soon as he returned 


336 FABER 


to her side. I had drawn this confession from her 
as out of a deep well and therefore it formed an in- 
violable bond between us. And so this other one, this 
absent one, in fact you, Eugene Faber, became as real 
as if you were daily and hourly beside me. I was 
guarding your most precious treasure, the sum total of 
your existence; I realized this to the fullest extent. 
When you returned I would have to give back a pos- 
session just as precious to me and irreplaceable; I 
would have to open the hand that held it; I would 
have to sever my heart from that to which it had 
grown fast. I had no doubts about that. And then 
you came. I was prepared to have Martina step be- 
fore me and say, according to her feelings: ‘Now I 
have again my true mission, let me go free.’ I ex- 
pected it day after day. I waited in vain. In place of 
that her being changed in a way that troubled me more 
and more. No one but myself suspected it; I saw her 
perplexity and how it almost smothered her. No ques- 
tion was permissible here, no question possible. I 
sought and sought. I tried everywhere for an ex- 
planation. On the evening before we sailed for Eng- 
land, when Martina and I were alone, Faber appeared 
to me. I cried to him: ‘What are you doing, Faber, 
what are you doing with the human soul that has 
been entrusted to you? with all you possess?’ And 
then suddenly I knew, and Martina also knew that I 


FABER 337 


knew everything. And yet nothing had happened be- 
tween you and Faith at that time. She fell into my 
arms and wept her heart out. I had never heard her 
weep. It was unspeakable, her weeping. I determined 
silently that we two, you and I, must come to an under- 
standing. I will say at the outset that in this case 
I am wholly without counsel. You cannot regard 
me as the older, more experienced person who brings 
her influence to bear and has already decided how 
to get free from this unhappiness. I want to turn to 
you, to have you find a solution within yourself. 
Everything hangs on that, solely on that. But first 
tell me something. Or rather, do not tell me; your 
words could never be recalled, they might create an 
ineradicable situation before we had approached it 
ourselves. You love Faith. Few women are more 
worthy of being loved. You love her; good—or think 
you do; good. That does not constitute the tragedy. 
That also is not Martina’s sorrow, whether she sus- 
pects it or already knows it. Her sorrow and perplexity 
existed before that. The thing that binds you to Mar- 
tina cannot be destroyed by anything that bears the 
name of passion or even of love. You cannot affect 
it; it is the axis of your existence. Therefore what 
are you to do, Eugene Faber? Don’t you believe that 
in the final analysis we may obtain power over what 
is ostensibly unalterable? Let my meaning become 


338 FABER 


clear to you. Obstinate and blind, betrayed by the 
self-confident ego in our breasts, we are always able 
to put a stop to things when we seize the right mo- 
ment. We can do so, we can do so, we need not take 
the last irrevocable step toward fate. Ask yourself; 
ask the monitor within you; he is there; he is ready; 
he will answer; he must answer.” 

She extended her clasped hands toward him; her 
noble face was turned toward him as if transfigured; 
her dumb pleading expression touched his very inmost 
self. His chest heaved convulsively. He forced him-- 
self to appear calm, and his calmness was transformed 
into a sort of rigidity. His glance flitted here and there 
about the room as if he wanted to avoid meeting the 
look of the Princess as long as possible; but there 
was no escape. He again forced himself to speak 
with a certain dryness in order not to betray how 
deeply he was touched and said: “Neither I nor Faith‘ 
have the intention of sacrificing Martina. Things‘ 
have not gone so far as a concept or a plan. It was‘ 
all an unwholesome dream. I now get somewhat of | 
a view of the whole for the first time. No matter 
what Faith is to me—and it hurts me to avow it—I 
cannot live without Martina. You are right, Princess, 
and now everything is clear to me.” | 

He stopped. His face changed colour. His arched | 
eyebrows stood out sharply on his forehead. The 


4 


FABER 339 


words that came seemed cut off abruptly, spoken with 
heavy tongue and shortness of breath: “It follows that | 
I must win Martina or take myself out of the world. / 
If I am to win her there is perhaps but one way, and 
that is to separate myself from her. To give up my 
right to her. Perhaps I must first withdraw my 
hand, my greedy hand’’—he contemplated his right 
hand with a bitter expression and then let it fall as 
if tired of it—‘“perhaps I must first loosen what I‘ 
would like to bind. Perhaps that is the remedy, | 
Princess. What do you think?” | 

The Princess was silent. Something more than joy 
flared up in her eyes, a deep, grateful rapture.. She 
was a woman with such extraordinary knowledge or 
understanding of human beings that she probably con- 
sidered it precarious to influence in advance the deci- 
sive battle that was being waged in the breast of this 
man, by any sudden agreement, whether silent or 
spoken. So, musing and gently reticent, she merely 
replied with her lovely smile: “It may be. There is 
something convincing in what you say. There is 
hardly likely to be any other way. To loosen, in 
order to bind: yes, it may be, that is the way.” 

She rose and her figure suddenly seemed pitifully 
frail. “Then I shall probably not have any Martina 
as an assistant any more,” she said; “but of course 
that is not Martina’s intention.” She extended her 


340 FABER 


hand witha gesture of respect that indicated how moved 
she was. 

He bowed down, very low, and touched her hand 
with his lips. 

Then he departed. 


XXIV 


Ir was past nine o'clock when he rang at Fleming’s 
door on his way back from the Children’s City. 
Fleming was at home; he shuffled along the floor in 
slippers and drew the bolt carefully, but upon spying 
Faber he lost the air of suspicious curiosity that he 
always wore when opening the door and greeted his 
friend with inarticulate murmurs, which were, never- 
theless, an expression of satisfaction. 

“It’s late,” he said, following Faber into the badly 
ventilated room, which appeared more untidy than 
ever; “you are fundamentally late, my dear fellow. 
Only just a little while ago I thought: To-day he will 
still come. A presentiment betrayed it to me. And 
how do men get presentiments? Through care. Very 
simple. All the prophets were full of care, and only 
for that reason were they prophets. Sit down. Sit 
down.” 

“Never mind,” responded Faber. “I am going on 
at once. That is to say, I go in order, perhaps, to 
come back. That depends on you. As a matter of 
fact I wanted to ask whether I might lodge with you 
for a time. The situation is such that I—I beg of 
you, don’t be shocked and don’t look so perplexed—I 

341 


342 FABER 


can’t remain at home just now. There are reasons 
that... [ll tell you everything when an opportunity 
comes. But not now, I am not capable of it now. So 
have patience. I should not like to go to a hotel, for, 
first of all, I don’t know how long this will last—and 
it may last longer than is agreeable to you, depending 
on circumstances. Then again a hotel is not an invit- 
ing place, not to mention that it is expensive. It is 
hard to find any other shelter at the moment, and I 
want to leave even this night. My good old Fleming, 
don’t distress yourself. I assure you it is not serious; 
a mood, or not a mood, a passing necessity. If it in- 
conveniences you, please consider my request as never 
made. But if not, I will give you very little trouble. 
A lodging for the night, a basin to wash in. Can you 
give me that?” 

“But, my God, Eugene, most assuredly!’ stammered 
Fleming, who had pushed his glasses up on his fore- 
head and in his amazement forgot to return them to 
his nose. “And you don’t need to do so much talking. 
Next to this, you see; we'll remove the two book- 
racks and put the coal scuttle in the kitchen; I will 
take the mattress from my bed for the present and 
to-morrow I will borrow a bed. An old woman lives 
on the second floor below. She is always helpful to 
me, yes, most helpful. But... Very well, my dear 
fellow, I can see you don’t want me to ask. You 


FABER 343 


wave that aside. I know, I know. Simply come. Do 
come. And don’t hurry too much. I[’ll wait for you.” 

In his confusion he did not know exactly what he 
was saying; he also groped about with his hands, now 
here, now there, first touching a book, then something 
in his pocket, then the arm of a chair. Faber’s hand 
was already on the latch. “Thank you, Fleming,” he 
rejoined, “when a man needs help he never comes to 
you in vain. Thank you kindly.” 

He was already in the outer hall when Fleming 
hurried after him and cried: “What I wanted to 


bf 


say, Eugene—” Faber turned; Fleming looked at 
him, dropped his eyes in embarrassment and then, 
when ostensibly nothing else came into his head he 
remarked brokenly: “I merely wanted to remind you 
to fetch me the Cardano, the astrologer—please don’t 
forget.” 

Upon arriving at home Faber went into his study, 
turned on the light, and then produced from a corner 
the little wooden chest he had carried home on his 
long journey. The key hung from a string attached 
to the handle. He opened the chest and placed in it 
his sketch books, loose sheets, a packet of letters that 
he took out of a locked drawer, and a case of mathe- 
matical instruments. At that moment his glance fell 
on the letter that he had been writing to Faith and 


Martina and had interrupted in the middle of a sen- 
| 


344 FABER 


tence. Without rereading it he tore it into little bits 
and threw them into the stove, lighted a match, ap- 
plied it to the little heap of paper and watched it until 
it was converted into ashes. Then he crossed the 
corridor to his bedroom, produced linen and a suit of 
clothes, and packed this rather carefully in his chest. 
Then he locked it, lifted it to see whether it could be 
carried easily, put it down on the floor, and looked 
around the room. “Oh, yes, the Cardano,” he said 
suddenly, with a peculiarly suppressed chuckle, and 
opened the door leading to the living-room, for the 
book was lying there on the writing table. The ad- 
joining room was dark, but light shimmered through 
a crack in the door of the living-room. He stood for 
a while in the darkness and reflected. As he detected 
no noise or voices he opened the door. He stopped 
on the threshold as if struck dumb. 

Martina was sitting on the sofa; Faith, with head 
buried in her lap, lay before her on her knees. Mar- 
tina was staring earnestly before her; she held Faith’s 
head with both hands, as if she had given her a promise 
or made a vow and both had thereupon fallen silent, 
for thus, it seemed, they had been for a long time. 

When the door opened Faith rose suddenly. Mar- 
tina also rose, but rather thoughtfully. She looked at 
Faber and smiled, with that amiable movement about 
the mouth; then she took Faith’s hand and said in a 


FABER 345 


firm, clear voice: “As you love each other and I know 
it, you shall not suffer—you must have each other. 
Take her, Eugene, take her to you, take her with 
you.” | 

“Martina!” cried Faith, and it sounded like the cry 
of a soul in unmeasurable agony. “Not like this, 
Martina! Don’t humble me, don’t cast me off like 
this. I can’t stand it; rather punish me.” 

“T punish you, Faith? I cast you from me?” asked 
Martina, surprised, her voice dropping melodiously. 
“What are you thinking of? Why not act logically? 
Why not do what one must do?” 

She wanted to leave the room; a shudder passed 
over her body. Faber detained her with a gesture. 
“One moment more, Martina,” he said calmly; “and 
you also, Faith, listen to me for a moment. I have 
packed my chest in there. I would have gone away 
without saying farewell if chance had not brought me 
into this room. ‘The situation is thus: I am going to 
leave the house. I cannot take Faith with me. Take 
Faith! Would Faith go with me? And leave you 
alone, Martina, alone with the child? She would never 
do that. And can I remain with you, Martina, and 
see Faith cast off through my fault? Absurd idea. 
You two must not part. At least not until one of 
you knows that the flame which she innocently kindled 
and which has made a new man of me has died out, 


346 FABER 


and the other is ready to feed the fire that nourishes 
three human lives by its warmth. The first evening 
I sat here with you, Martina, you raised your glass and 
called to me: “To the future, Eugene!’ Do you re- 
member? Now I call the same back to you and say 
to you: I will wait, and wait patiently for this future, 
even if twenty years must go by before it comes to 
pass. Adieu, good night, Faith. Adieu, good night, 
Martina. There is something a bit strange about all 
this. Recently I read a fairy tale to Christopher 
about a juggler who sneaks secretly out of the gates 
of the city at night after he has done all sorts of evil 
with his foolish tricks. I shall see Christopher once 
in a while. He will visit me. So once more: Good 
night, and farewell!” 

He went. Soon after they heard the closing of the 
outer door. 

Martina, who, like Faith, had been standing mo- 
tionless, stretched her head forward a little. She 
listened with bated breath. With both hands she 
brushed her hair back from her temples; it was an 
unconscious, trancelike gesture. Her eyes were opened 
unnaturally wide; the parted lips permitted the teeth 
‘to shine through. Suddenly she ran into the corridor 
in great haste, so that her skirt flew up around her 
ankles. There she tore open the door to the staircase 
and listened at the staircase. Thereupon, she dashed 


FABER 347 


into Christopher’s room in the same stormy haste, 
rushed to the boy’s bed, snatched the sleeping one up 
to her with intense emotion and covered his face with 
kisses. Again she dashed out of the dark room into 
the corridor and to the dark staircase, listened again, 
and then with undiminished violence returned to the 
room, where Faith, who had not yet moved or spoken 
was standing sunk in thought, threw her arms about her 
and cried in a tone divided between suffering and re- 
joicing, childlike suffering and radiant, mystical rejoic- 
ing: “Faith, wake up! Faith, wake up! Do you know 
about it? Have you heard? He has gone, my be- 
loved! My very best-beloved has gone from me... .” 

And she kissed Faith and laughed and sobbed at 
once. She seemed as if demented. 

Faith, amazed, watched her with a troubled look 
and bowed her head. 


THE END 









/ ; Dir ae Mi 
Kady? an Me MR ua > ER 
Nude a Be a 


i 
ar u a a a 











v 
Re srl 
Gis It ch r, = 
HG h, en 


I 


HELM 


nt’ y INN 
it 


it thes ul Ns ! 
il fe i 


o 


ai 3 anes a a 
: “fw” | 
ih, 


il) 


Dam 
> i YY 


Jy 


Null \, 


be 


In 

N ai 
Sy 
| il 
N 


u < | 
\ < N jv! I 
SE NN : i 


i" 


yy ill: N <q N a 1; 
ni“ lt Ali) 





